Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home
and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of
existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very
little to distress or vex her.

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,
indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been
mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died
too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of
her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as
governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.

Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a
governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly
of Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before
Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the
mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint;
and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been
living together as friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma
doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but
directed chiefly by her own.

The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too
well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to
her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived,
that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.

Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any
disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's
loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this
beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any
continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and
herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer
a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as
usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.

The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston
was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and
pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering
with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and
promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her. The want
of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her
past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--how she had
taught and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had
devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how
nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of
gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven
years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed
Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a
dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such
as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing
all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and
peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of
hers--one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had
such an affection for her as could never find fault.

How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going
only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the
difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss
Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic,
she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She
dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not
meet her in conversation, rational or playful.

The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had
not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;
for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of
mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though
everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable
temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.

Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being
settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from
Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,
and give her pleasant society again.

Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,
to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and
name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses
were first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many
acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but
not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even
half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over
it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it
necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous
man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and
hating to part with them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the
origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet
reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever speak of her
but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection,
when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his
habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that
other people could feel differently from himself, he was very much
disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for
them, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the
rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully
as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was
impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,

"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that
Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"

"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such
a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves
a good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for
ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her
own?"

"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?
This is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my
dear."

"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!--We
shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding
visit very soon."

"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could
not walk half so far."

"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,
to be sure."

"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a
little way;--and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our
visit?"

"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa. You know we have
settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last
night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going
to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there. I only
doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,
papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you
mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"

"I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not
have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am
sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken
girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always
curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you
have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock
of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an
excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes
over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will
be able to tell her how we all are."

Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and
hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably
through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The
backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked
in and made it unnecessary.

Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not
only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly
connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He lived
about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,
and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their
mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after
some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were
well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated
Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which
always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor Isabella" and
her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.
Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,
to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have
had a shocking walk."

"Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I
must draw back from your great fire."

"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not
catch cold."

"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them."

"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain
here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at
breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding."

"By the bye--I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what
sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my
congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you
all behave? Who cried most?"

"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."

"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say
'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it
comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two."

"Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome
creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head, I
know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."

"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a
sigh. "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."

"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.
Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only
myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a
joke--it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another."

Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults
in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and
though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew
it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him
really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by
every body.

"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no
reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons
to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a
gainer."

"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--"you want to hear about
the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved
charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not
a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we
were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every
day."

"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr.
Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am
sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for."

Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. "It
is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr.
Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's
time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to
her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow
herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor
must be glad to have her so happily married."

"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very
considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the match, you
know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the
right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may
comfort me for any thing."

Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, "Ah!
my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for
whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more
matches."

"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for
other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such
success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry
again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who
seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied
either in his business in town or among his friends here, always
acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need not spend
a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.
Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a
promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the
uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the
subject, but I believed none of it.

"Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met
with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted
away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from
Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match
from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance,
dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making."

"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley.
"Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately
spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring
about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But
if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means
only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it
would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry
her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why
do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You
made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said."

"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--I
pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess is
never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my
poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so
entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;
but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing and
the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given
many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might
not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield
enough to comprehend that."

"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,
unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their
own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than
good to them, by interference."

"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined
Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not
make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family
circle grievously."

"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.
Elton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in
Highbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has
fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him
single any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day,
he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office
done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I
have of doing him a service."

"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young
man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any
attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will
be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to
meet him."

"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley,
laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better
thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish
and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a
man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself."



CHAPTER II


Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,
which for the last two or three generations had been rising into
gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on
succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed
for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,
and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering
into the militia of his county, then embodied.

Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his
military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire
family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized,
except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were
full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.

Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her
fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was
not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the
infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with
due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much
happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a
husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due
to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;
but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had
resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother,
but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's
unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison
of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at
once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.

Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,
as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of
the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he
was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy
had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his
mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature
of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the
little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance
the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were
overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and
the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek,
and his own situation to improve as he could.

A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and
engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in
London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which
brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,
where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation
and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his
life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy
competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining
Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as
portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of
his own friendly and social disposition.

It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth,
it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could
purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;
but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were
accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained
his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had
never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,
even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful
a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the
pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be
chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.

He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;
for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his
uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume
the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore,
that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no
apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her
husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that
any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he
believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and
was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man
had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as
sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a
kind of common concern.

Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively
curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little
returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit
his father had been often talked of but never achieved.

Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a
most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a
dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with
Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now
was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope
strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new
mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury
included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.
"I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill
has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,
indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and
he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life."

It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,
formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing
attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most
welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation
which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate
she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial
separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and
who could ill bear to part with her.

She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without
pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,
from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would
have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped
would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and
privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of
Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking,
and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the
approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in
the week together.

Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.
Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more
than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,
that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize
at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her
at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away
in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her
own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh,
and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay."

There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to
pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which
had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach
could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be
different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit
for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them
from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as
earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the
pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry
was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one
of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he
could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias
of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with
many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an
opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence
every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;
and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.

There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being
seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.
Woodhouse would never believe it.



CHAPTER III


Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to
have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from
his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,
his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his
own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much
intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late
hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but
such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury,
including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish
adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not
unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and
the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred;
and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there
was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a
card-table for him.

Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by
Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege
of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the
elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles
of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.

After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were
Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at
the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for
either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it
would have been a grievance.

Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old
lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her
single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the
regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree
of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.
Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having
much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to
make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into
outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her
youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted
to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small
income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman
whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will
and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body,
was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's
merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with
blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours
and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and
cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a
recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself. She was
a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse,
full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.

Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an
establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of
refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality,
upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies for enormous
pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a real,
honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of
accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might
be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little
education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's
school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was
reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden,
gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great
deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own
hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked
after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who
had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the
occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr.
Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat
parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose
a few sixpences by his fireside.

These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to
collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though,
as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of
Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and
very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the
quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so
spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.

As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the
present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most
respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most
welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew
very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of
her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no
longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.

Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed
her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody
had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of
parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.
She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and
was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young
ladies who had been at school there with her.

She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort
which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a
fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great
sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased
with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the
acquaintance.

She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's
conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not
inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing,
shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly
grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed
by the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had
been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those
natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury
and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed were
unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very
good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the
name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large
farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very
creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of
them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the
intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance
to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve her; she
would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good
society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an
interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her
own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.

She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and
listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the
evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which
always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and
watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to the
fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common impulse
of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of doing every
thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind delighted
with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and
help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an
urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil
scruples of their guests.

Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse's feelings were in sad warfare.
He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his
youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would
have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health
made him grieve that they would eat.

Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could,
with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain
himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to
say:

"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg
boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg
better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body
else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of
our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a
_little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You
need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the
custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A
_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could
disagree with you."

Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much
more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular
pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was
quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage
in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much
panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with
highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands
with her at last!



CHAPTER IV


Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick
and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and
telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so
did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had
very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect
Mrs. Weston's loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the
shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long
walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage
her exercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once alone to
Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore,
one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable
addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of
her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.

Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful
disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be
guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself
was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of
appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no
want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.
Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the
young friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required.
Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could
never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different
sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the
object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet
would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there
was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.

Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who
were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell
every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma
was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in
the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet
had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what
Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.

Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of
the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the
conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of
Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied
her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,
and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe
the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her
talkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings,
and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much
exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "_two_ parlours, two very good
parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's
drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived
five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of
them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch
cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it,
it should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome
summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to
drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen
people."

For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate
cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings
arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it
appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was
always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing
something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.
Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were not
taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.

With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and
meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,
and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to
speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening
games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and
obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her
some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in
every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son into
the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond
of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very
clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while
she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in
the country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and
sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and
there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body
to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he
would make a good husband. Not that she _wanted_ him to marry. She was
in no hurry at all.

"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what you are about."

"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send
Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever
seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with
her."

"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of
his own business? He does not read?"

"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a
good deal--but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the
Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window
seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an evening,
before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the
Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of
Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of
the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but
he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."

The next question was--

"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"

"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at
first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,
after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and
then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston.
He has passed you very often."

"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having
any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,
is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are
precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.
A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me;
I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other. But
a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as
much above my notice as in every other he is below it."

"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him;
but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight."

"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,
indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine
his age to be?"

"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the
23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd."

"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is
perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they
are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably
repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young
woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very
desirable."

"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!"

"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not
born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely
to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he
might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family
property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and
so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in
time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing
yet."

"To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no
indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks
of taking a boy another year."

"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does
marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his
sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected
to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you
to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly
careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a
gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by
every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who
would take pleasure in degrading you."

"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,
and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any
body can do."

"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would
have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent
even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently
well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd
acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should still
be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn
in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife,
who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education."

"To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body
but what had had some education--and been very well brought up. However,
I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am sure I shall
not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great
regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very
sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But
if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not
visit her, if I can help it."

Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no
alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but
she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious
difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her
own.

They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the
Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at
her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was
not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few
yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye
sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very
neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no
other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen,
she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's
inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily
noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.
Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.

They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be
kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,
and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to
compose.

"Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite
a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not
think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls
most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.
He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it,
but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well,
Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him?
Do you think him so very plain?"

"He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing
compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect
much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so
very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a
degree or two nearer gentility."

"To be sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel
as real gentlemen."

"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been
repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you
must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield,
you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I
should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company
with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior
creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him
at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not
you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and
abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly
unmodulated as I stood here."

"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and
way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But
Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!"

"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to
compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with
_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the
only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston
and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their
manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent.
You must see the difference."

"Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old
man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty."

"Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person
grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not
be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or
awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later
age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.
Weston's time of life?"

"There is no saying, indeed," replied Harriet rather solemnly.

"But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,
vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of
nothing but profit and loss."

"Will he, indeed? That will be very bad."

"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the
circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.
He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing
else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to
do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very
rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb
_us_."

"I wonder he did not remember the book"--was all Harriet's answer, and
spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be
safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her
next beginning was,

"In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr.
Knightley's or Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be
more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness,
almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_,
because there is so much good-humour with it--but that would not do to
be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding
sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look,
and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set
about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think
a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a
model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle.
He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know
whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us,
Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are
softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please
you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?"

She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr.
Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and
said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.

Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young
farmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent
match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her
to have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body
else must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any
body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had
entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to
Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense
of its expediency. Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the
gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of
any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.
He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient
income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known
to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him
as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any
deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.

She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful
girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was
foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little
doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual
weight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a
young man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very
handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,
there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense
with:--but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding
about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered by
Mr. Elton's admiration.



CHAPTER V


"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr.
Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I
think it a bad thing."

"A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?"

"I think they will neither of them do the other any good."

"You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a
new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been
seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently
we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This will
certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.
Knightley."

"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing
Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle."

"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks
exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday,
and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a
girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not
allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live
alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no
man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of
one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can imagine
your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman
which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants
to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more
herself. They will read together. She means it, I know."

"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old.
I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of
books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists
they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes
alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew
up when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much
credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made
out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of
steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing
requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the
understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely
affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade her
to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not."

"I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so
_then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting
to do any thing I wished."

"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,"--said
Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. "But I,"
he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must
still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest
of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to
answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always
quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she
was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her
mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her
mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her."

"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_
recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another
situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to
any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held."

"Yes," said he, smiling. "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a
wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to
be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might
not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to
promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on the
very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing
as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I
should certainly have named Miss Taylor."

"Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to
such a man as Mr. Weston."

"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that
with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We
will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of
comfort, or his son may plague him."

"I hope not _that_.--It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not
foretell vexation from that quarter."

"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's
genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the
young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But
Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the
very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows
nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a
flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.
Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any
thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful
inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot
gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit
with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined
enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances
have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any
strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally
to the varieties of her situation in life.--They only give a little
polish."

"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more
anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.
How well she looked last night!"

"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very
well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty."

"Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect
beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?"

"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom
seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial
old friend."

"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features,
open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,
and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!
There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her
glance. One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;'
now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of
grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?"

"I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied. "I think her
all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,
that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome
she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies
another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of
Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm."

"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not
doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an
excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder
sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be
trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no
lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred
times."

"Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and
I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.
John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection,
and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite
frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions
with me."

"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;
but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,
you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's
mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any
possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a
matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any
little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be
expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly
approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a
source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to
give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little
remains of office."

"Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it. It is very
good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often
found; for it shall be attended to."

"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about
her sister."

"Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my
ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella
does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;
perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one
feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!"

"So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much."

"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just
nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she
cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love
with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some
doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts
to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home."

"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution
at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so
happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which
would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I
do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight
to the state, I assure you."

Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own
and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes
at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to
have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon
afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have
rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about
Hartfield.



CHAPTER VI


Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a proper
direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good
purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.
Elton's being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;
and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his
admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating
as much liking on Harriet's side, as there could be any occasion for.
She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of
falling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple with regard
to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could
not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add. His
perception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her
introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of
his growing attachment.

"You have given Miss Smith all that she required," said he; "you have
made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she
came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are
infinitely superior to what she received from nature."

"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted
drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the
natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have
done very little."

"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr.
Elton--

"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have
taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before."

"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded
decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!"

"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition
more truly amiable."

"I have no doubt of it." And it was spoken with a sort of sighing
animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased
another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,
to have Harriet's picture.

"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?" said she: "did you
ever sit for your picture?"

Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,
with a very interesting naivete,

"Oh! dear, no, never."

No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,

"What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would
give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.
You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great
passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and
was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or
another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,
if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her
picture!"

"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a delight!
Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent
in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could
you suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your
landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable
figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?"

Yes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking
likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don't pretend to be in raptures
about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet's face. "Well, if you give me
such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do.
Harriet's features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult;
and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines
about the mouth which one ought to catch."

"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth--I have
not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,
it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession."

"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks
so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering
me? How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'"

"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still
I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."

Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;
and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the
earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly,
and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at
portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might
decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many beginnings were
displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and
water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do
every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than
many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to.
She played and sang;--and drew in almost every style; but steadiness
had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of
excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to
have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either
as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others
deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often
higher than it deserved.

There was merit in every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the
most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there
been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions
would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness
pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.

"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma. "I had only my own
family to study from. There is my father--another of my father--but the
idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only
take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston
again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my
kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.
There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!--and
the face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she
would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw
her four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my
attempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and
John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of
them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them
drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three
or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take
any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are
coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were. Here is my
sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on
the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would
wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That's very
like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very
good. Then here is my last,"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman
in small size, whole-length--"my last and my best--my brother, Mr. John
Knightley.--This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away
in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not
help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made
a very good likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in
thinking it _very_ like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but
that was a fault on the right side"--after all this, came poor dear
Isabella's cold approbation of--"Yes, it was a little like--but to be
sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble
in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and
altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish
it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every
morning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then
forswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather
for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_
_present_, I will break my resolution now."

Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was
repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as
you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives," with so interesting a
consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better
leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the
declaration must wait a little longer.

She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be
a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was
destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station
over the mantelpiece.

The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not
keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of
youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no
doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every
touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze
and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to
it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her
to employ him in reading.

"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness
indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the
irksomeness of Miss Smith's."

Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.
She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less
would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the
smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress,
and be charmed.--There was no being displeased with such an encourager,
for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it
was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his
complaisance were unexceptionable.

The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough
pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on. There was no want
of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant
to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more
height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of
its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling
its destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the
beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both;
with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising
attachment was likely to add.

Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,
entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.

"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
party."

The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,
took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the
picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,
but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every
criticism.

"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
wanted,"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that
she was addressing a lover.--"The expression of the eye is most correct,
but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of
her face that she has them not."

"Do you think so?" replied he. "I cannot agree with you. It appears
to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a
likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know."

"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.

Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly
added,

"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she
is sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short
gives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
Proportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of
such a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"

"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse. "So prettily done! Just as your
drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well
as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems
to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her
shoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold."

"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.
Look at the tree."

"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear."

"You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess that
I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of
doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other
situation would have been much less in character. The naivete of Miss
Smith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep
my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness."

The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few
difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the
order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste
could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions,
must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse
could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of
December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it
was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. "Might he be trusted
with the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing
it! he could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how
much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand."

"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!--she would not give
him such a troublesome office for the world,"--brought on the desired
repetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few minutes settled
the business.

Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give
the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its
safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of
not being incommoded enough.

"What a precious deposit!" said he with a tender sigh, as he received
it.

"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," thought Emma. "I should
say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of
being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet
exactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does
sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could
endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
But it is his gratitude on Harriet's account."



CHAPTER VII


The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion
for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,
as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to
return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been
talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something
extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a
minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to
Mrs. Goddard's, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and
finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a
little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on
opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which
she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was
from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage.
"Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what
to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter,
at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very
much--but she did not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to
ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her
friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.

"Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any
thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can."

"Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather you
would."

Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style
of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no
grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a
gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and
the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was
short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety,
even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood
anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last
forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?"

"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so
good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his
sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom
I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if
left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;
no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a
woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural
talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in
hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men.
Yes, I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments
to a certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet
(returning it,) than I had expected."

"Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I
do?"

"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
letter?"

"Yes."

"But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and
speedily."

"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me."

"Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express
yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not
being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be
unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude
and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will
present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need
not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his
disappointment."

"You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down.

"Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any
doubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been
under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel
in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you were
consulting me only as to the wording of it."

Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:

"You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect."

"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you
advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do."

"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do
with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings."

"I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet,
contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her
silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that
letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,

"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as
to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse
him. If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No' directly.
It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with
half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself,
to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence
you."

"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would
just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As
you say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be
hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,'
perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'"

"Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you
either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you
prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most
agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you
hesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at
this moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive
yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this
moment whom are you thinking of?"

The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned away
confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was
still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard.
Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At
last, with some hesitation, Harriet said--

"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well
as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost
made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?"

"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just
what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to
myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation
in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would
have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the
consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest
degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence;
but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not have
visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you
for ever."

Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her
forcibly.

"You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be
sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have
been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not
give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing
in the world."

"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it
must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.
I must have given you up."

"Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me
never to come to Hartfield any more!"

"Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_
confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I
wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must
have a pretty good opinion of himself."

"I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her
conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured,
and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard
for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though
he may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must
confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one comes
to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,
_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.
Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and
his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as
to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration."

"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be
parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or
because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter."

"Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too."

Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very
true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish
manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that
her husband could write a good letter."

"Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always
happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But
how shall I do? What shall I say?"

Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised
its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her
assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance
being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence.
The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a
softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace her up
with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much concerned at
the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother
and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they should not
fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had come in
her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.

This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business
was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but
Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by
speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of
Mr. Elton.

"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a
sorrowful tone.

"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You
are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill."

"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but
at Hartfield."

Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much
surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would--for
Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a
linen-draper."

"One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher
of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an
opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear
valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she
is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be
among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I
are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained
themselves."

Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that
people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly
cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards
the rejected Mr. Martin.

"Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all
doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy
too. I hope he will not mind it so very much."

"Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully
employed," cried Emma. "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing
your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful
is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,
allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name."

"My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street."

"Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest
Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till
just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this
evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,
it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those
pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm
prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy
their imaginations all are!"

Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.



CHAPTER VIII


Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been
spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have
a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every
respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible
just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or
two to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should
return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.

While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.
Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his
mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was
induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his
own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley,
who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short,
decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and
civil hesitations of the other.

"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not
consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and
go out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had
better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony,
Mr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people."

"My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me."

"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to
entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my
three turns--my winter walk."

"You cannot do better, sir."

"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a
very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you
have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey."

"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think
the sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the
garden door for you."

Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being
immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more
chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more
voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.

"I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a
pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her
disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good
hands she will turn out a valuable woman."

"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be
wanting."

"Come," said he, "you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you
that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's
giggle; she really does you credit."

"Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been
of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they
may. _You_ do not often overpower me with it."

"You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?"

"Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she
intended."

"Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps."

"Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!"

"Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would."

Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said
nothing. He presently added, with a smile,

"I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that
I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of
something to her advantage."

"Indeed! how so? of what sort?"

"A very serious sort, I assure you;" still smiling.

"Very serious! I can think of but one thing--Who is in love with her?
Who makes you their confidant?"

Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.
Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr.
Elton looked up to him.

"I have reason to think," he replied, "that Harriet Smith will soon have
an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter:--Robert
Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have
done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her."

"He is very obliging," said Emma; "but is he sure that Harriet means to
marry him?"

"Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to
the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows
I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe,
considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether
I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether
I thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice
altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered
(especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society
above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear
better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the
purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every
thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in
the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and
brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me
that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he
could not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent
him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he
would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house
thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened
the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow
much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear
to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs.
Goddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking
him at all a tiresome wretch."

"Pray, Mr. Knightley," said Emma, who had been smiling to herself
through a great part of this speech, "how do you know that Mr. Martin
did not speak yesterday?"

"Certainly," replied he, surprized, "I do not absolutely know it; but it
may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?"

"Come," said she, "I will tell you something, in return for what
you have told me. He did speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was
refused."

This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.
Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood
up, in tall indignation, and said,

"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the
foolish girl about?"

"Oh! to be sure," cried Emma, "it is always incomprehensible to a man
that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always
imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her."

"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the
meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is
so; but I hope you are mistaken."

"I saw her answer!--nothing could be clearer."

"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your
doing. You persuaded her to refuse him."

"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not
feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man,
but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized
indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he
does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever
got over."

"Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and
with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, "No, he is
not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in
situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are
Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any
connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of
nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and
certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder
at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any
information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and
too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can have
no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have
any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and
that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account,
as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that,
as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as
to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I
could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there
being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in
good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well.
The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the
smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out
upon her extreme good luck. Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of.
It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's
leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember
saying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will
think this a good match.'"

"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any
such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his
merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend!
Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom
I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should
think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are
very different. I must think your statement by no means fair. You are
not just to Harriet's claims. They would be estimated very differently
by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two,
but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.--The sphere in
which she moves is much above his.--It would be a degradation."

"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a
respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!"

"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may
be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay
for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with
whom she is brought up.--There can scarcely be a doubt that her father
is a gentleman--and a gentleman of fortune.--Her allowance is
very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or
comfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me; that
she associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will
deny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin."

"Whoever might be her parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may have
had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of
their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After
receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's
hands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line,
to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought
this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough. She desired nothing
better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had
no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as
happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of
superiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no
friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded
so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to
him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any
woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is
the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had
encouragement."

It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this
assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject
again.

"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before,
are unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so
contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she
has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her
understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and
supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured,
let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they are not
trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a
beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an
hundred; and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the
subject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall
in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with
such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought
after, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a
claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim,
comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and
manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to
be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in
general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims
a woman could possess."

"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost
enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply
it as you do."

"To be sure!" cried she playfully. "I know _that_ is the feeling of
you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every
man delights in--what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his
judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to
marry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just
entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at
because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No--pray let
her have time to look about her."

"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said Mr. Knightley
presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now perceive
that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up
with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that,
in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her.
Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing
so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss
Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though
she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to
say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of
connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity--and most prudent
men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be
involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let
her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for
ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her
to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large
fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest
of her life--or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry
somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the
old writing-master's son."

"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there
can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more
angry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible;
she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any
second application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him,
whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to
say that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there
was very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is so much
against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to
favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen
any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her
friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen
nobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not,
while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case
is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a
gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet."

"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!" cried Mr.
Knightley.--"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and
good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than
Harriet Smith could understand."

Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was
really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She
did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better
judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;
but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,
which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him
sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.
Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt
on Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was
thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.

"Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I hope it
will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known
to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it
is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;--and as
a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it
will be all labour in vain."

Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,

"Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,
and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make
an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any
body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is
as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's.
He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite
wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved
moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does
not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great
animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are
intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again. "If I had
set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very
kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to
myself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to
equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well."

"Good morning to you,"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was
very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was
mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had
given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair,
was provoking him exceedingly.

Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more
indistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his. She did not always
feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that
her opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He
walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She
was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and
the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet's staying
away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility of the
young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with
Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread
of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when
Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any
such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which
settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.
Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman's
friendship and woman's feelings would not justify.

He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered
that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither
with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of
Mr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such
a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she
was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully
to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have
heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done, and
Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to
money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise
to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the
influence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr.
Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its
effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming
any hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and
more than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure
did not belong to Mr. Elton.

Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not
to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been
telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great
delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child,
and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was
coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and
found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road
to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the
whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.
Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it
was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to
persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not
do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_
_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would
not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a
very enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly
precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure
there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton
only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits.
Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about
Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, "that she did
not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only
knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the
luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his
equal for beauty or agreeableness."



CHAPTER IX


Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with
herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before
he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks
shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent.
On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified
and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.

The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.
Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common
sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences
of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were
visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as
her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied
of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a
contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.

Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of
useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few
first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much
easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination
range and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge
her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary
pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she
was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing
all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin
quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with
ciphers and trophies.

In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are
not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out
at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it
from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more.
Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote
a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first
order, in form as well as quantity.

Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the
girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting
in. "So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he
wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time."
And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."

His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject,
did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he
had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,
something, he thought, might come from that quarter.

It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury
in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one
whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good
enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had
the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections;
and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that
nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the
sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest
puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and
rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,

    My first doth affliction denote,
      Which my second is destin'd to feel
    And my whole is the best antidote
      That affliction to soften and heal.--

made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some
pages ago already.

"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she; "that
is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to
you."

"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his
life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he
stopt a moment--"or Miss Smith could inspire him."

The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He
called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table
containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed
to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his
manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.

"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he. "Being my
friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,
but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."

The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could
understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found
it easier to meet her eye than her friend's. He was gone the next
moment:--after another moment's pause,

"Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards
Harriet--"it is for you. Take your own."

But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never
loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.

        To Miss--

          CHARADE.

    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
    Another view of man, my second brings,
      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

    But ah! united, what reverse we have!
      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
      May its approval beam in that soft eye!

She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through
again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then
passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while
Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope and
dulness, "Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse
charades. _Courtship_--a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This
is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly--'Pray, Miss Smith,
give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my
intentions in the same glance.'

      May its approval beam in that soft eye!

Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets, the
justest that could be given.

      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.

Humph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in
love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the
benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life
you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade
indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon
now."

She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,
which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the
eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.

"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have not an idea--I
cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find
it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it
kingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young lady.
Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?

      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Can it be Neptune?

      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one
syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?"

"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking
of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend
upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.

For Miss ------, read Miss Smith.

    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

That is _court_.

    Another view of man, my second brings;
      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

That is _ship_;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.

    But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!
      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

A very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which
I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in
comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of
its being written for you and to you."

Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read
the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not
speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.
Emma spoke for her.

"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,"
said she, "that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You
are his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I
thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it
is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on
the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long
have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that has happened.
I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were
most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have
really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my
dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may
well feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing
but good. It will give you every thing that you want--consideration,
independence, a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your
real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy
for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in
either of us."

"Dear Miss Woodhouse!"--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet,
with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did
arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to
her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she
ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.

"Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, "and therefore I
suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not
have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,
who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He
is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses--'To Miss ------.'
Dear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?"

"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a
certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to
the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by
matter-of-fact prose."

"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure,
a month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do take
place!"

"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and
really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so
evidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of
other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one
another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying
will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a
something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right
direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.

      The course of true love never did run smooth--

A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that
passage."

"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body
says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;
that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so
excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has
ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back
to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!--The two Abbots and
I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he
was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look
through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me
look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he
looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole."

"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must
be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we
are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to
see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives
every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same
country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will
be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the
common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the
respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy
them."

"Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand
every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This
charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any
thing like it."

"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it
yesterday."

"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read."

"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly."

"It is as long again as almost all we have had before."

"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things
in general cannot be too short."

Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory
comparisons were rising in her mind.

"It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have
very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is
any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you
must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like
this."

Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's
prose.

"Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I
ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, what can we do about that?"

"Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare
say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will
pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall
chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me."

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good."

"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not
write it into your book."

"Oh! but those two lines are"--

--"The best of all. Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private
enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,
because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its
meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a
very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon
it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his
passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or
neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be
no possible reflection on you."

Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts,
so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a
declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree
of publicity.

"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she.

"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer it
lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you
will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him
so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any
thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of
gallantry towards us all!--You must let me read it to him."

Harriet looked grave.

"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You
will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too
quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning
which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little
tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not
have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me
than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has
encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over
this charade."

"Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please."

Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does
your book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?"

"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A
piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose,
by a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied
it in."

She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and
distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every
part as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and, as she had
foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.

"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said. Very true.
'Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I
can easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody could have written so
prettily, but you, Emma."

Emma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very
tender sigh, he added,

"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother
was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can
remember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have
heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are
several.

    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
      Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
    The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid,
    Though of his near approach afraid,
      So fatal to my suit before.

And that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever all
the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."

"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the
Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know."

"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.

    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.

The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here
next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her--and what
room there will be for the children?"

"Oh! yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual, you
know. Why should there be any change?"

"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not
since last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's
being a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly taken
away from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see
Miss Taylor here!"

"She will not be surprized, papa, at least."

"I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I
first heard she was going to be married."

"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
here."

"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she
is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing."

"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case of
necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we
ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time
they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken
out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this
Christmas--though you know it is longer since they were with him, than
with us."

"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be
anywhere but at Hartfield."

Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his
brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing
a little while, and then said,

"But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so
soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to
stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well."

"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I
do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her
husband."

This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse
could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected
by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately
led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.

"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother
and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children.
We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she
will think the handsomest, Henry or John?"

"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be
to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet."

"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not."

"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the
eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,
is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that
the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I
thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They
are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will
come and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit
of string?' and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives
were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with
them very often."

"He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle
yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not
think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if
they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an
affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate
father. The children are all fond of him."

"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a
very frightful way!"

"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such
enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of
their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other."

"Well, I cannot understand it."

"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot
understand the pleasures of the other."

Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate
in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this
inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could
receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in
his the consciousness of having made a push--of having thrown a die;
and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible
reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made
up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest
degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give
way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his
dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him
conditionally to come.

Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend
on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged--she
re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the
paper from the table, she returned it--

"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank
you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured
to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it
amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight
lines."

Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather
doubtingly--rather confused; said something about "honour,"--glanced at
Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took
it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an
awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,

"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade
must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's
approbation while he writes with such gallantry."

"I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating
a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least
if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt that,
could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at the
book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as the
proudest moment of his life."

After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think
it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was
a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to
laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and
the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.



CHAPTER X


Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to
prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the
morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who
lived a little way out of Highbury.

Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane
leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of
the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr.
Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about
a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not
very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had
no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the
present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility
of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing
eyes.--Emma's remark was--

"There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these
days."--Harriet's was--

"Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow
curtains that Miss Nash admires so much."

"I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded, "but
_then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately
acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part
of Highbury."

Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage,
and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors
and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with
Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.

"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any
tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire
about of his housekeeper--no message from my father."

She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some
minutes, Harriet thus began again--

"I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or
going to be married! so charming as you are!"--

Emma laughed, and replied,

"My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;
I must find other people charming--one other person at least. And I
am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little
intention of ever marrying at all."

"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it."

"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be
tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the
question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather not
be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I
must expect to repent it."

"Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"--

"I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall
in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in
love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.
And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a
situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;
consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much
mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never
could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and
always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."

"But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!"

"That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if
I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so
smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt
to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry
to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any
likeness, except in being unmarried."

"But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!"

"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty
only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single
woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old
maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good
fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant
as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the
candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very
narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.
Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and
generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross. This
does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and
too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste
of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not
contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the
world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody
is afraid of her: that is a great charm."

"Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you
grow old?"

"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great
many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more
in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's
usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they
are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read
more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for
objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the
great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil
to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the
children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough
of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that
declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every
fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it
suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My
nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me."

"Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have seen her
a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"

"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to
Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit
with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people
half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane
Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from
her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round
and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a
stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of
nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires
me to death."

They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were
superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor
were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her
counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,
could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic
expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had
done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and
always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In
the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she
came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give
comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of
the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,

"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make
every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but
these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how
soon it may all vanish from my mind?"

"Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing
else."

"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said
Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended
the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them
into the lane again. "I do not think it will," stopping to look once
more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still
greater within.

"Oh! dear, no," said her companion.

They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was
passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma
time only to say farther,

"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good
thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion
has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that
is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can
for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves."

Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined
them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the
first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit
he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about
what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to
accompany them.

"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma;
"to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase
of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the
declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else."

Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon
afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one
side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had
not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of
dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,
they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately
stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing
of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the
footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would
follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time
she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort
of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the
cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch
broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to
and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have
been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design;
and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without
any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,
involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow;
and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in
a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with
animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,
having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back
a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join
them.

Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;
and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only
giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his
friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese,
the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the
dessert.

"This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her
consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and
any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I
could but have kept longer away!"

They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage
pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the
house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and
fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short,
and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to
entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to
rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.

"Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to
contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I
hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop
at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string,
or any thing just to keep my boot on."

Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could
exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and
endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were
taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind
it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door between
them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive
her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave
the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton
should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but
by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make
it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining
room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be
protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her
appearance.

The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most
favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having
schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point.
He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that
he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little
gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.

"Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and
will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure."

Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her
ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been
the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them
forward to the great event.



CHAPTER XI


Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power
to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her
sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,
and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;
and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be
expected--she did not herself expect--that any thing beyond occasional,
fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might
advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or
other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure
for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they
will do for themselves.

Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent
from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest.
Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been
divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of
this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was
therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their
Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be
induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and
who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in
forestalling this too short visit.

He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little
of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some
of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;
the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John
Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids,
all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival,
the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed
and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could
not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even
for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father
were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal
solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their
having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and
drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for,
without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long
a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance
on them.

Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet
manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt
up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly
attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a
warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault
in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any
quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also
much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful
of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond
of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry.
They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong
habit of regard for every old acquaintance.

Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;
rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private
character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally
pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an
ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a
reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with
such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects
in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper
must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she
wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.

He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong
in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to
Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have
passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister,
but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without
praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal
compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of
all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful
forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience
that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and
fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or
sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John
Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally
a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's
charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently
to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of
every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of
necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.
They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a
melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention
to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.

"Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business."

"Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her!
And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so
grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without
her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir."

"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the
place agrees with her tolerably."

Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts
of the air of Randalls.

"Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my
life--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret."

"Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply.

"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the
plaintive tone which just suited her father.

Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish."

"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,
have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,
either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most
frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston
is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way,
you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be
aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be
assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by
any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact
truth."

"Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped
it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be
doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I
have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change
being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have
Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."

"Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot
deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty
often--but then--she is always obliged to go away again."

"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite
forget poor Mr. Weston."

"I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has
some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the
poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims
of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella,
she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all
the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can."

"Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.--
"Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a
greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for
the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss
Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting
Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does
not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever
existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal
for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that
very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last
September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night,
on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I
have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better
man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor."

"Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here on this
occasion--or has he not?"

"He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in
nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately."

"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father.
"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very
proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very
well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one
cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--"

"My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes."

"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought
it--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well,
time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an
exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal
of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it
was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly."

"How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But
how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with
him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body
who proposed such a thing to any body else."

"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr.
John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt
what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather
an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes
things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,
depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his
comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing
whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection,
or any thing that home affords."

Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had
half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She
would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and
valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to
himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on
the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
important.--It had a high claim to forbearance.



CHAPTER XII


Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of
Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in
Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it;
and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had
particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement
between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper
invitation.

She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time
to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been
in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be
out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had
ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of
friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children
with her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who
was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced
about in her aunt's arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave
looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in
the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the
unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again;
and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then
a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the
baby,

"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with
regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."

"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women,
and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with
them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always
think alike."

"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being in the
wrong."

"Yes," said he, smiling--"and reason good. I was sixteen years old when
you were born."

"A material difference then," she replied--"and no doubt you were much
my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the
lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
nearer?"

"Yes--a good deal _nearer_."

"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
think differently."

"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little
Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old
grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."

"That's true," she cried--"very true. Little Emma, grow up a better
woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.
Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good
intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects on
my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that
Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed."

"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.

"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me."

This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley
made his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?" and "John, how are
you?" succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that
seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led
either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the
other.

The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards
entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and
the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his
daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally
distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in
one or the other.

The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally
some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious
anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at
Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to
give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting
to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his
life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change
of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for
wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality
of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his
willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries
even approached a tone of eagerness.

While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a
full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.

"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and
interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her
five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!
And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,
my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and
I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all
have a little gruel."

Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the
Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and
two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of
gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every
body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,

"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South
End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air."

"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not
have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for
the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing."

"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any
good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though
perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use
to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once."

"Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must
beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I
who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear
Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and
he never forgets you."

"Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"

"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has
not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take
care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round
the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But
then there is not so clever a man any where."

"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He
will be so pleased to see my little ones."

"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,
you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."

"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any
uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to
her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.
Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August."

"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use
to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have
spoken to--

"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I
have not heard one inquiry after them."

"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention
them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.
Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They
are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss
Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?"

"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a
bad cold about a month ago."

"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more
general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza."

"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you
mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy
as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it
altogether a sickly season."

"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly
except--

"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always
a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a
dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the
air so bad!"

"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is
very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London
in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very
different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be
unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is
hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in:
but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of
Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."

"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but
after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different
creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think
you are any of you looking well at present."

"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely
free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were
rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a
little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of
coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I
assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever
sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that
you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with
affectionate anxiety towards her husband.

"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley
very far from looking well."

"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John
Knightley, hearing his own name.

"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking
well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have
wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you
left home."

"My dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray do not concern yourself
about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and
the children, and let me look as I chuse."

"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,"
cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff
from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will
not the old prejudice be too strong?"

And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to
give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing
worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane
Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that
moment very happy to assist in praising.

"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.--"It
is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment
accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old
grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always
regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at
Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a
delightful companion for Emma."

Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,

"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty
kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a
better companion than Harriet."

"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so
very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age."

This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar
moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not
close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied
a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubting
decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty
severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with
tolerably;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter
had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in
her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never
had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth
gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered
it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a
dangerous opening.

"Ah!" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her
with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah!
there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It
does not bear talking of." And for a little while she hoped he would not
talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to
the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes,
however, he began with,

"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here."

"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a
great deal of good."

"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been
to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to
hear you had fixed upon South End."

"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite
a mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there, never
found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is
entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may
be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and
his own brother and family have been there repeatedly."

"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--Perry
was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the
sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by
what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from
the sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable. You should have
consulted Perry."

"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how
great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty."

"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to
chuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all,
better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into
a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very
ill-judged measure."

Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he
had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
brother-in-law's breaking out.

"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, "would do
as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it
any business of his, to wonder at what I do?--at my taking my family to
one part of the coast or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use of
my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.--I want his directions no more than
his drugs." He paused--and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only
sarcastic dryness, "If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and
five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater
expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as
willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself."

"True, true," cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--"very
true. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I was telling
you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the
right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive
any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of
inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly
the present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,
will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow
morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me
your opinion."

Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his
friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been
attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--but the soothing
attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and
the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the
other, prevented any renewal of it.



CHAPTER XIII


There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning
among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what
she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing
to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a
delightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.

In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their
mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,
there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of
the party.

How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he
could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually
at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on
that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long
to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for
Harriet also.

Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the
only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as
well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being
consulted in every thing.

The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that
Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent
by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with
a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.
Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called
on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to
Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard
was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet
herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her
from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss
without many tears.

Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's
unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr.
Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last
tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most
comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not
advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr.
Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly
together in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour
of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might
carry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John
Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest
boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country
run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice
pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and
proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's
complaint;--"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat
about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.
Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often
alarmed her with them." Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as
he exclaimed,

"A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of
yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.
Why does not Perry see her?"

Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and
care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she
could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist
than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject,

"It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like
snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I
should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from
venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the
cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great
a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton,
in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a
little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and
what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than
common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night."

Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind
care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's,
he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma,
too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him
impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with
his muttering acknowledgment of its being "very cold, certainly very
cold," and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls,
and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour
of the evening.

"You do quite right," said she;--"we will make your apologies to Mr. and
Mrs. Weston."

But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only
objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt
satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had
his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;
never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when
he next looked at her.

"Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got
him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill
behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men,
especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining
out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,
their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any
thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most
valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love
with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine
out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready
wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her."

Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his
manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while
assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair
friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting
her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and
he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of
approbation much in his favour.

After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began
with--

"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With
men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please,
every feature works."

"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there is
a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great
deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will
have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect
good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value."

"Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems
to have a great deal of good-will towards you."

"Me!" she replied with a smile of astonishment, "are you imagining me to
be Mr. Elton's object?"

"Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now."

"Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!"

"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it
is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your
manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better
look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do."

"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and
I are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a
partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high
pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well
pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in
want of counsel. He said no more.

Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in
spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking
from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest
daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the
weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own
going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was
cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe;
and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow
were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so
overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world
in a very short time.

Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The
preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of
his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,
which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated
nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the
whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his
discontent.

"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks
people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as
this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most
agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest
absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--The folly of not allowing
people to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying
comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such
an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we
should deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing
than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of
the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view
or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter
that he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in
another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said
and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.
Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and
four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering
creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had
at home."

Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no
doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true,
my love," which must have been usually administered by his travelling
companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making
any answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being
quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to
talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening
her lips.

They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton,
spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with
pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and
cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she
began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from
what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had
been, "Much the same--not better."

"_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so
pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer."

His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of
sentiment as he answered.

"Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that
when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing
before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,
by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I
had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I
knew had been given her in the morning."

Emma smiled and answered--"My visit was of use to the nervous part of
her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat;
it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you
probably heard."

"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--"

"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is
impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!"

"Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment."

This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really
estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay
when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,
and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.

"What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for
carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold
with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have
rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced
and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way
unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very
cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha!
snows a little I see."

"Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of
it."

"Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and
extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin
yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly
have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been
much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite
the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites
their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst
weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing
could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away
till that very day se'nnight."

Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but
said only, coolly,

"I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls."

At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much
astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed
quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.

"We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the
greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston
indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so
hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where
small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.
Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably;
and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by
two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with
a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation,
though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of
London, may not quite enter into our feelings."

"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with
any body."

"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had
been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will
be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great
enjoyment."

"My first enjoyment," replied John Knightley, as they passed through the
sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again."



CHAPTER XIV


Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they
walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his
joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr.
Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the
place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as
happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the
world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any
one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and
understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the
little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father
and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston
had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication
of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life
depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.

This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not
afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the
very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful
to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr.
Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that
was enjoyable to the utmost.

The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through
before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough
to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and
Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just
got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his
daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost
wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and
welcome her dear Emma.

Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry
to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.
The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards
Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and
solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting
him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal
suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be
possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from
Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"--Yet he would be so anxious
for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father,
and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her
drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly
like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her
good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's,
in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively
civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on
amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's
nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough
to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she
heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several
times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected
that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could
quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving
question from her would have been awkward.

Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never
marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr.
Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently
thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that
if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,
character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the
families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be
a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.
Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though
not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could
change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention
of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and
a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends'
imaginations.

With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;
but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very
cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly
pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the
substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for
when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston,
at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of
hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to
her,

"We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see
two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and
then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me
telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.
I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a
fortnight."

Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to
his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party
quite complete.

"He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since
September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his
own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between
ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in
January."

"What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so
anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as
yourself."

"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not
know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is
quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other
room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a
party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and
that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not
put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family
that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular
dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in
two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.
I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing
Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself:
but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table)
has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at
Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been
long in the practice of doing."

"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied
Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he
will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe."

"Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at
the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself
to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very
fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of
any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her
way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing
to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,
that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say
it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in
general; and the devil of a temper."

Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,
very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet
observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.--
Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be
secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked
of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as
Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.
Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?"

"Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world."

"My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty
of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending
before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means
so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father
thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in
short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on
the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered
woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him."

"Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella:
"and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest
compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must
be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but
it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any
children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!"

Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have
heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve
which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,
would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills
from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at
present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon
followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after
dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor
conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with
whom he was always comfortable.

While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of
saying,

"And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means
certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,
whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better."

"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even
if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that
some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine
any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on
the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They
are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no
dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine."

"He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days,
he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having
it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into
bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants
to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such
restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he
likes it."

"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before
one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to
use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one
individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must
not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every
thing gives way to her."

"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now,
according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that
while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she
owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_,
she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes
nothing at all."

"My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand
a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.
I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it
may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will
be."

Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless
he comes."

"He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs.
Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is
beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of
his coming away from them to visit us."



CHAPTER XV


Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his
tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three
companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of
the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and
convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last
the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very
good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma
were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with
scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.

Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by
the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his
making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most
friendly smiles.

He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend--her fair,
lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about
her, since their being at Randalls?--he felt much anxiety--he must
confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably."
And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much
attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror
of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.

But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he
were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on
Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection, than
that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great
earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber
again, for the present--to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture
into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and
though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its
proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude
about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was no concealing
it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of
Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!
and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston
to implore her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would
not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go
to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had
no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise--would not she
give him her influence in procuring it?"

"So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless for
herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and
yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore
throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I
some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid."

Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an
address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of
first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and
offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose.
She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought
must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a
seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.

She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did
another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room
from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information
of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing
fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.
Woodhouse:

"This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements,
sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way
through a storm of snow."

Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else
had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,
and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston
and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his
son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.

"I admired your resolution very much, sir," said he, "in venturing out
in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.
Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and
I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can
hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is
blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other
at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight."

Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he
had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest
it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his
hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely
to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they
would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that
he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost
good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,
calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,
every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the
consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.

"What is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr.
Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some
time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her
representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of
their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.

His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being
blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full
in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for
adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager
to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls,
while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible
accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.

"You had better order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare
say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we
do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all
afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes,
you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that
gives me cold."

"Indeed!" replied he. "Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most
extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing
does give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for walking home,
I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses."

Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.
Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could
not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;
and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had
left the room immediately after his brother's first report of the snow,
came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to examine,
and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty in their
getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He
had gone beyond the sweep--some way along the Highbury road--the snow
was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough to
whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the
clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon
over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there
being nothing to apprehend.

To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were
scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who
was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous
constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be
appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at
Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning
home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and
while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley
and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus--

"Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?"

"I am ready, if the others are."

"Shall I ring the bell?"

"Yes, do."

And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more,
and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own
house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and
happiness when this visit of hardship were over.

The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such
occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.
Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal
of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the
discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. "He was
afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella
would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.
He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together
as they could;" and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very
slow and wait for the other carriage.

Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he
did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;
so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second
carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,
and that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been
the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,
previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to
him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but
one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had
been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he
would want to be talking nonsense.

To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was
immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of
the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they
passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her
subject cut up--her hand seized--her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton
actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious
opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well known,
hoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but
flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and
unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,
very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It
really was so. Without scruple--without apology--without much apparent
diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself
_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say
it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to
restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must
be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to
the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the
playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she
replied,

"I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget
yourself--you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall
be happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please."

"Miss Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly
mean!"--And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such
boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with
quickness,

"Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account
for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak
either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough
to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it."

But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at
all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and
having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and
slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,--but
acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,--he
resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a
favourable answer.

As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his
inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,
replied,

"It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself
too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can
express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last
month, to Miss Smith--such attentions as I have been in the daily
habit of observing--to be addressing me in this manner--this is an
unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible!
Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object
of such professions."

"Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Elton, "what can be the meaning of this?--Miss
Smith!--I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my
existence--never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never
cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she
has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very
sorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse!
who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my
honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of
you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one
else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has
been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You
cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!--(in an accent meant to be
insinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me."

It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this--which
of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely
overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence
being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he
tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed--

"Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting
silence. It confesses that you have long understood me."

"No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing. So far from having
long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect
to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you
should have been giving way to any feelings--Nothing could be farther
from my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of
her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been
very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not
your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged
ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have
never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?--that you
have never thought seriously of her?"

"Never, madam," cried he, affronted in his turn: "never, I assure you.
_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of
girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish
her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object
to--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,
quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal
alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!--No, madam, my
visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I
received--"

"Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been entirely
mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my
friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake
ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might
have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,
probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you
are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I
trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present."

He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite
supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually
deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,
for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If
there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate
awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the
little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage
turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,
all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another
syllable passed.--Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good
night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under
indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.

There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who
had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage
Lane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think of--and in
strange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed as
if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.
John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and
attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her
father, as to seem--if not quite ready to join him in a basin of
gruel--perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the
day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,
except herself.--But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and
it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the
usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.



CHAPTER XVI


The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think
and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an overthrow
of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every
thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst
of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or
other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and
she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken--more in
error--more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the
effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.

"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have
borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--but poor
Harriet!"

How she could have been so deceived!--He protested that he had never
thought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well as
she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she
supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must
have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so
misled.

The picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!--and the
charade!--and an hundred other circumstances;--how clearly they had
seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its "ready
wit"--but then the "soft eyes"--in fact it suited neither; it was
a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such
thick-headed nonsense?

Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to
herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere
error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others
that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the
gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,
till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean
any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.

To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the
subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying
that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley
had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given,
the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry
indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his
character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It
was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many
respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;
proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little
concerned about the feelings of others.

Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his
addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his
proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,
and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the
arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was
perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be
cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language or
manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could
hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less
allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He
only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse
of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so
easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody
else with twenty, or with ten.

But--that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware
of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry
him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!--look down
upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below
him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no
presumption in addressing her!--It was most provoking.

Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her
inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of
such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that
in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must
know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at
Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family--and that the
Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was
inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,
to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from
other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell
Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had
long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which
Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as he
could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him
to notice but his situation and his civility.--But he had fancied her
in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and
after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners
and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop
and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and
obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and
delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.
If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to
wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken
hers.

The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was
wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It
was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what
ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite
concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.

"Here have I," said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very
much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for
me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had
not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I
used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not
to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done
of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and
chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the
opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have
attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.
I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this
disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body
else who would be at all desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I
could not endure William Coxe--a pert young lawyer."

She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more
serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be,
and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and
all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of
future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the
acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding
eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some
time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the
conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully.

To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary
gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of
spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,
and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough
to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of
softened pain and brighter hope.

Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone
to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to
depend on getting tolerably out of it.

It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in
love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to
disappoint him--that Harriet's nature should not be of that superior
sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive--and that there
could be no necessity for any body's knowing what had passed except the
three principals, and especially for her father's being given a moment's
uneasiness about it.

These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow
on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that
might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.

The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she
could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his
daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting
or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered
with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and
thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every
morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to
freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse
with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any
more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's
absenting himself.

It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though
she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society
or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with
his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to
hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from
them,--

"Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?"

These days of confinement would have been, but for her private
perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited
her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to
his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his
ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the
rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging,
and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes of
cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such
an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as
made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.



CHAPTER XVII


Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The
weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.
Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay
behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party
set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor
Isabella;--which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated
on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently
busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.

The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.
Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with
Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury
the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with
the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few
weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from
various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal
leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever
retain a grateful sense--and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be
happy to attend to them."

Emma was most agreeably surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this
time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving
it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it
was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than
in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.
She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her name was not
mentioned;--and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an
ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as
she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion.

It did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so
sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to
the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a
very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought
and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse
talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away
with all her usual promptitude.

She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason
to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that
she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of
her other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs.
Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary
penance of communication; and a severe one it was.--She had to destroy
all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to appear in
the ungracious character of the one preferred--and acknowledge herself
grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all
her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last
six weeks.

The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the sight of
Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with
herself again.

Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming nobody--and in every
thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion
of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to
her friend.

Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;
and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on
Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having
any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton
would have been too great a distinction.--She never could have deserved
him--and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would
have thought it possible.

Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that
no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and
she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and
understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the
superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for
her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could
do.

It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and
ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of
being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of
her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was
to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection
in some better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield,
and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and
amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her
thoughts.

Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and
she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in
general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton
in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age,
and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be
made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as
to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance,
without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.

Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence
of any body equal to him in person or goodness--and did, in truth,
prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet
it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an
inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend its
continuing very long in equal force.

If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and
indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not
imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the
recollection of him.

Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for
each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of
effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each
other, and make the best of it.

Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.
Goddard's; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great
girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could
have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or
repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be
found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of
cure, there could be no true peace for herself.



CHAPTER XVIII


Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs.
Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For
the present, he could not be spared, to his "very great mortification
and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to
Randalls at no distant period."

Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in
fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man
had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever
expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by
any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure,
and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and
sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three
months later would be a much better plan; better time of year;
better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay
considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.

These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of
a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of
excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was
to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.

Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr.
Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls.
The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to
be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she
should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express
as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr.
and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their
friendship.

She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite
as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather
more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then
proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of
such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of
looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the
sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the
Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement
with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was
taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making
use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself.

"The Churchills are very likely in fault," said Mr. Knightley, coolly;
"but I dare say he might come if he would."

"I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but
his uncle and aunt will not spare him."

"I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a
point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof."

"How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose
him such an unnatural creature?"

"I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that
he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little
for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have
always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than
one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud,
luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If
Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it
between September and January. A man at his age--what is he?--three or
four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as that.
It is impossible."

"That's easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your
own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the
difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers
to manage."

"It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty
should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want
money--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so
much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in
the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A
little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the
Churchills."

"Yes, sometimes he can."

"And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
there is any temptation of pleasure."

"It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an intimate
knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior
of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that
family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.
Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew
can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at
others."

"There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and
that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and
resolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his
father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he
wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at
once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--'Every sacrifice of
mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience;
but I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by
my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion.
I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'--If he would say so to her
at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no
opposition made to his going."

"No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some made to his
coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to
use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you
have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to
your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to
the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for
him!--Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as
loud as he could!--How can you imagine such conduct practicable?"

"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He
would feel himself in the right; and the declaration--made, of course,
as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner--would do him more
good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he
depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do.
Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could
trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do
rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the
world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and
while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not
thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for
right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of
manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would
bend to his."

"I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but
where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have
a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great
ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be
transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation,
you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for
him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have
a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early
obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might
not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set
all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as
strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so
equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it."

"Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal
exertion, it could not be an equal conviction."

"Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to
understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly
opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his
life."

"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the
will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of
following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for
the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he
ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in
their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their
side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there
would have been no difficulty now."

"We shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing
extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:
I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly,
though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,
complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's
perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some
advantages, it will secure him many others."

"Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and
of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely
expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine
flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade
himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of
preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to
complain. His letters disgust me."

"Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else."

"I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy
a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's
place, but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her
account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly
feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he
would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether
he did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of
considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to
herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French,
not in English. He may be very 'amiable,' have very good manners, and be
very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings
of other people: nothing really amiable about him."

"You seem determined to think ill of him."

"Me!--not at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not
want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits
as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal;
that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners."

"Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure
at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and
agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the
bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his
coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the
parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest--one object of
curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak
of nobody else."

"You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him
conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a
chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts."

"My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of
every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally
agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music;
and so on to every body, having that general information on all subjects
which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as
propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each; that is my
idea of him."

"And mine," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any
thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!
at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company--the great man--the
practised politician, who is to read every body's character, and make
every body's talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to
be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like
fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not
endure such a puppy when it came to the point."

"I will say no more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to
evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no
chance of agreeing till he is really here."

"Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced."

"But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for
Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour."

"He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another," said
Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately
talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be
angry.

To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a
different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of
mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the
high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had
never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit
of another.




VOLUME II



CHAPTER I


Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's
opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could
not think that Harriet's solace or her own sins required more; and
she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they
returned;--but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,
and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and
receiving no other answer than a very plaintive--"Mr. Elton is so good
to the poor!" she found something else must be done.

They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was
always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates
loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few
who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in
that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of
their scanty comforts.

She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,
as to her deficiency--but none were equal to counteract the persuasion
of its being very disagreeable,--a waste of time--tiresome women--and
all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and
third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore
she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not
passing their door without going in--observing, as she proposed it to
Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite
safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.

The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied
the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment,
which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even
gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was
seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to
Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready
to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit,
solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's
health, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet-cake from
the beaufet--"Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten
minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and _she_ had
taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much;
and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them
the favour to eat a piece too."

The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton
since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the
letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much
he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went,
and how full the Master of the Ceremonies' ball had been; and she went
through it very well, with all the interest and all the commendation
that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's
being obliged to say a word.

This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,
having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by
any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses
and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been
prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually
hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to
the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.

"Oh! yes--Mr. Elton, I understand--certainly as to dancing--Mrs. Cole
was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was--Mrs. Cole was so
kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as
she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a
favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to
shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much
as any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying,
'I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her
time for writing;' and when I immediately said, 'But indeed we have, we
had a letter this very morning,' I do not know that I ever saw any body
more surprized. 'Have you, upon your honour?' said she; 'well, that is
quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.'"

Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest--

"Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I
hope she is well?"

"Thank you. You are so kind!" replied the happily deceived aunt, while
eagerly hunting for the letter.--"Oh! here it is. I was sure it could
not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being
aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately
that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs.
Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for
it is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she can never
hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is,
only just under my huswife--and since you are so kind as to wish to hear
what she says;--but, first of all, I really must, in justice to
Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter--only two pages you
see--hardly two--and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses
half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often
says, when the letter is first opened, 'Well, Hetty, now I think
you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work'--don't you,
ma'am?--And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out
herself, if she had nobody to do it for her--every word of it--I am sure
she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed,
though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see
amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such
a blessing! My mother's are really very good indeed. Jane often says,
when she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong
eyes to see as you do--and so much fine work as you have done too!--I
only wish my eyes may last me as well.'"

All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;
and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss
Fairfax's handwriting.

"You are extremely kind," replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; "you who
are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is
nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's.
My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma'am,"
addressing her, "do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say
about Jane's handwriting?"

And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated
twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was
pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very
rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost
resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss
Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.

"My mother's deafness is very trifling you see--just nothing at all. By
only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,
she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very
remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all
deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my
mother's time of life--and it really is full two years, you know, since
she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as
I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her
now."

"Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?"

"Oh yes; next week."

"Indeed!--that must be a very great pleasure."

"Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so
surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she
will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see
her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very
good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you know. Oh
yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is
the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the
common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or
Wednesday."

"Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my
hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day."

"So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been
for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My
mother is so delighted!--for she is to be three months with us at
least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the
pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are
going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come
over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till the
summer, but she is so impatient to see them again--for till she married,
last October, she was never away from them so much as a week, which must
make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say,
but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter
to her mother--or her father, I declare I do not know which it was, but
we shall see presently in Jane's letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as
well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would
give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country
seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great
deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean--I do not know that she ever
heard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know,
that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his
addresses--and as Jane used to be very often walking out with them--for
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughter's
not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all
blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss
Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word
that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had
taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane
was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things."

At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's
brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the
not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther
discovery,

"You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to
come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship
between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be
excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."

"Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been
rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a
distance from us, for months together--not able to come if any thing was
to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want
her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing
than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently;
Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is
a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at
Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the
sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have
been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he
had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit--
(I can never think of it without trembling!)--But ever since we had the
history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!"

"But, in spite of all her friends' urgency, and her own wish of seeing
Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?"

"Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel
and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should
recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native
air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately."

"I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs.
Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has
no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be
compared with Miss Fairfax."

"Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things--but certainly not.
There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely
plain--but extremely elegant and amiable."

"Yes, that of course."

"Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November,
(as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long
time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned
it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so
considerate!--But however, she is so far from well, that her kind
friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air
that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four
months at Highbury will entirely cure her--and it is certainly a great
deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is
unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do."

"It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world."

"And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells
leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following--as you will
find from Jane's letter. So sudden!--You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,
what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of
her illness--but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and
looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to
me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through
to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for
fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me
to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;
but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I
burst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me! poor Jane is ill!'--which
my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed
at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had
fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does
not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my
guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The
expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so
fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for
attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and
family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I
have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to
her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better
than I can tell it for her."

"I am afraid we must be running away," said Emma, glancing at Harriet,
and beginning to rise--"My father will be expecting us. I had no
intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,
when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not
pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so
pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good
morning."

And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained
the street--happy in this, that though much had been forced on her
against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of
Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.



CHAPTER II


Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest
daughter.

The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ----regiment of infantry,
and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope
and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy
remembrance of him dying in action abroad--of his widow sinking under
consumption and grief soon afterwards--and this girl.

By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on
losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation,
the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every
probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught
only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no
advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what
nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and
warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.

But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change
to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded
Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and
farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe
camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which
he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the
death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in
his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice
of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about
Jane's age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and
growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his
daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real
friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking
the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period
Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them
entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.

The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the
very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making
independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel
Campbell's power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was
handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter's;
but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of
respectable subsistence hereafter.

Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known
nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent
education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people,
her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline
and culture; and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every
lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of
first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy
of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was,
as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children,
fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she was too
much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote,
and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was
easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane remained with
them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of
an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with
only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own
good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.

The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss
Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from
the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and
acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen
by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the
parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the
marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often
defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is
moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of
Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were
acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had
yet her bread to earn.

This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be
yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path
of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had
fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty
should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had
resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from
all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace
and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.

The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such
a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no
exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for
their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would
be selfishness:--what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they
began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the
temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments
of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however,
affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying
on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of
their daughter's marriage; and till she should have completely recovered
her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so
far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits,
seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something
more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with
tolerable comfort.

With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her
aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths
not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to
Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with
those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,
whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double, or
treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they
depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the recovery
of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to
come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which
had been so long promised it--Mr. Frank Churchill--must put up for the
present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two
years' absence.

Emma was sorry;--to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like
through three long months!--to be always doing more than she wished,
and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a
difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was
because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she
wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly
refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which
her conscience could not quite acquit her. But "she could never get
acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was such
coldness and reserve--such apparent indifference whether she pleased or
not--and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!--and she was made
such a fuss with by every body!--and it had been always imagined that
they were to be so intimate--because their ages were the same, every
body had supposed they must be so fond of each other." These were her
reasons--she had no better.

It was a dislike so little just--every imputed fault was so magnified
by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any
considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and
now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years'
interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and
manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane
Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the
highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost
every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her
figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between
fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point
out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; and
then, her face--her features--there was more beauty in them altogether
than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing
beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had
never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to
cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really
needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was
the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her
principles, admire it:--elegance, which, whether of person or of mind,
she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction,
and merit.

In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with
twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering
justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When
she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;
when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was
going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible
to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every
well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly
probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had
so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more
pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.
Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's
actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination
had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single,
successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously
sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her
friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be
denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself
effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of
laborious duty.

Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,
as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury
afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she
could wish to scheme about for her.

These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed
herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax,
or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than
saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than
handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother
and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state.
Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more
tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration
of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how
little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice
of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new
workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again.
They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise
which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an
air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very
superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so
cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in
a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was
disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.

If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on
the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent
on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value
for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all
general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished.
It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw
its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_
something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps,
had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only
to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.

The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill
had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a
little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma
procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed
he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was
generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young
man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London
acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were
all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than
they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his
manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her.



CHAPTER III


Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment
were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had
seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was
expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with
Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might
have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough
to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to
Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.

"A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been
talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers
swept away;--"particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some
very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting
at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women;
sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss
Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing
undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument
at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence."

"I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling; "but I hope I am not
often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."

"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not.
There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing,
you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed
round once, I think it would have been enough."

"No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often
deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I
think you understand me, therefore."

An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said
only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved."

"I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all
that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its
foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured."

"You think her diffident. I do not see it."

"My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,
"you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant
evening."

"Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and
amused to think how little information I obtained."

"I am disappointed," was his only answer.

"I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his
quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I
moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.
Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though
she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.
Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane
Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a
very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening
agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma."

"True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax."

Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the
present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question--

"She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from.
I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart."

Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to
express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose
thoughts were on the Bates's, said--

"It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a
great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can
venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we
have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;
it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other
pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure
of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without
the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast
pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?"

"My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.
There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and
the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like."

"That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but
that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it
is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle
boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a
little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome."

"Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you.
You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will
interest you."

"News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile
so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?"

He had time only to say,

"No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was
thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full
of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.
Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another
syllable of communication could rest with him.

"Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I
come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You
are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be
married."

Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so
completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a
little blush, at the sound.

"There is my news:--I thought it would interest you," said Mr.
Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what
had passed between them.

"But where could _you_ hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you
possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I
received Mrs. Cole's note--no, it cannot be more than five--or at least
ten--for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out--I
was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork--Jane was
standing in the passage--were not you, Jane?--for my mother was so
afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would
go down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead? for I think
you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh!
my dear,' said I--well, and just then came the note. A Miss
Hawkins--that's all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley,
how could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told
Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins--"

"I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just
read Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly."

"Well! that is quite--I suppose there never was a piece of news more
generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My
mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand
thanks, and says you really quite oppress her."

"We consider our Hartfield pork," replied Mr. Woodhouse--"indeed it
certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot
have a greater pleasure than--"

"Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good
to us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth
themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.
We may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.' Well, Mr.
Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well--"

"It was short--merely to announce--but cheerful, exulting, of course."--
Here was a sly glance at Emma. "He had been so fortunate as to--I forget
the precise words--one has no business to remember them. The information
was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By
his style, I should imagine it just settled."

"Mr. Elton going to be married!" said Emma, as soon as she could speak.
"He will have every body's wishes for his happiness."

"He is very young to settle," was Mr. Woodhouse's observation. "He had
better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We
were always glad to see him at Hartfield."

"A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!" said Miss Bates, joyfully;
"my mother is so pleased!--she says she cannot bear to have the poor old
Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have
never seen Mr. Elton!--no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see
him."

Jane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to
occupy her.

"No--I have never seen Mr. Elton," she replied, starting on this appeal;
"is he--is he a tall man?"

"Who shall answer that question?" cried Emma. "My father would say
'yes,' Mr. Knightley 'no;' and Miss Bates and I that he is just the
happy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,
you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in
Highbury, both in person and mind."

"Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young
man--But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he
was precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,--I dare say, an
excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother--wanting
her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my
mother is a little deaf, you know--it is not much, but she does not
hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He
fancied bathing might be good for it--the warm bath--but she says it did
him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.
And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It
is such a happiness when good people get together--and they always do.
Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles,
such very good people; and the Perrys--I suppose there never was a
happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir," turning
to Mr. Woodhouse, "I think there are few places with such society as
Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.--My dear
sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is
pork--a roast loin of pork--"

"As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted
with her," said Emma, "nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that it
cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks."

Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,
Emma said,

"You are silent, Miss Fairfax--but I hope you mean to take an interest
in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late
on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss
Campbell's account--we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.
Elton and Miss Hawkins."

"When I have seen Mr. Elton," replied Jane, "I dare say I shall be
interested--but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some
months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn
off."

"Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse,"
said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday.--A Miss Hawkins!--Well, I had
always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that
I ever--Mrs. Cole once whispered to me--but I immediately said, 'No, Mr.
Elton is a most worthy young man--but'--In short, I do not think I am
particularly quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it.
What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if
Mr. Elton should have aspired--Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so
good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does
Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs.
John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you
know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in
person--tall, and with that sort of look--and not very talkative."

"Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all."

"Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is
not, strictly speaking, handsome?"

"Handsome! Oh! no--far from it--certainly plain. I told you he was
plain."

"My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,
and that you yourself--"

"Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard,
I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the
general opinion, when I called him plain."

"Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does
not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my
dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most
agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's;
but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home
directly--I would not have you out in a shower!--We think she is the
better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not
attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for
any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another
thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming
too. Well, that is so very!--I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be
so kind as to give her your arm.--Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!--Good
morning to you."

Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while
he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry--and to
marry strangers too--and the other half she could give to her own view
of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece
of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she
was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it--and all that she could hope
was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from hearing
it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely
to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!--and upon its
beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would
be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would
undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.

The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,
when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which
hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the "Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!" which instantly burst forth,
had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was
given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in
listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to
tell. "She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago--she had
been afraid it would rain--she had been afraid it would pour down
every moment--but she thought she might get to Hartfield first--she
had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the
house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she
would just step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem
to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain,
and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as
she could, and took shelter at Ford's."--Ford's was the principal
woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher's shop united; the shop
first in size and fashion in the place.--"And so, there she had
set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full ten minutes,
perhaps--when, all of a sudden, who should come in--to be sure it was
so very odd!--but they always dealt at Ford's--who should come in, but
Elizabeth Martin and her brother!--Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I
thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting
near the door--Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy
with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly,
and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the
shop; and I kept sitting near the door!--Oh! dear; I was so miserable!
I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away
you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the
world but there.--Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse--well, at last, I fancy, he
looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they
began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and
I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me--(do
you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)--for presently she came forward--came
quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands,
if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used; I
could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be very
friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no
more what I said--I was in such a tremble!--I remember she said she
was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss
Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to
hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting
away--and then--only think!--I found he was coming up towards me
too--slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and
so he came and spoke, and I answered--and I stood for a minute, feeling
dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how; and then I took courage, and
said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got
three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was
going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's
stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh!
dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was
very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went
back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables--I believe I did--but
I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know,
there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and
so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and
make me comfortable again."

Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in
her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly
comfortable herself. The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed
the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet
described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection
and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed them to be
well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make
in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of
course, he must be sorry to lose her--they must be all sorry. Ambition,
as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped
to rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of
Harriet's description?--So easily pleased--so little discerning;--what
signified her praise?

She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering
all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt
on,

"It might be distressing, for the moment," said she; "but you seem to
have behaved extremely well; and it is over--and may never--can never,
as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about
it."

Harriet said, "very true," and she "would not think about it;" but still
she talked of it--still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma, at
last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry
on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution;
hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only
amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet--such a conclusion of
Mr. Elton's importance with her!

Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel
the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour
before, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation
was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity,
wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins,
which could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in
her fancy.

Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It
had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any
influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get
at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the
courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the
brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard's; and a twelvemonth
might pass without their being thrown together again, with any
necessity, or even any power of speech.



CHAPTER IV


Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting
situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of
being kindly spoken of.

A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in
Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have
every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly
accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived
to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits,
there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian
name, and say whose music she principally played.

Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and
mortified--disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what
appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right
lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He
had gone away deeply offended--he came back engaged to another--and
to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such
circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay
and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse,
and defying Miss Smith.

The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of
perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune,
of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some
dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had not
thrown himself away--he had gained a woman of 10,000 l. or thereabouts;
and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity--the first hour of
introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice;
the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress
of the affair was so glorious--the steps so quick, from the accidental
rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green's, and the party at Mrs.
Brown's--smiles and blushes rising in importance--with consciousness and
agitation richly scattered--the lady had been so easily impressed--so
sweetly disposed--had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase,
been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally
contented.

He had caught both substance and shadow--both fortune and affection, and
was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and
his own concerns--expecting to be congratulated--ready to be laughed
at--and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young
ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more
cautiously gallant.

The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to
please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and
when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which
a certain glance of Mrs. Cole's did not seem to contradict, that when he
next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.

During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough
to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression
of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now
spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder
that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight was so
inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings, that,
except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable
humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured
of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave
her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most
satisfaction.

The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must
certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be
prevented--many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would
be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink
without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility
again.

Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough
for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury--handsome
enough--to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side. As to connexion,
there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted
claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article,
truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_
she was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not
appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no
blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters
of a Bristol--merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole
of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it
was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very
moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath;
but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the
father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained--in the law
line--nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him, than
that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma
guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise.
And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder
sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_
_way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the
history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.

Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had
talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out
of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's
mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he
certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin
would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure
her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always
in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this
reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him
somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every
day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him,
_just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something
occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of
surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about
him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who
saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as
the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every
guess--all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the
arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and
furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was
receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept
alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss
Hawkins's happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed
attached!--his air as he walked by the house--the very sitting of his
hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!

Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her
friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind,
Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton
predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful
as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of
the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the
knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth
Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had
not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her, written
in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great
deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much
occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return,
and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in
person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were
forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again,
Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best
for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.

How that visit was to be acknowledged--what would be necessary--and
what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.
Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would
be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the
acquaintance--!

After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than
Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had
understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal
acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the
Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again
so soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree
of intimacy was chosen for the future.

She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it
which her own heart could not approve--something of ingratitude, merely
glossed over--it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?



CHAPTER V


Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her
friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her
to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.
Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of
being lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where
the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk
and the direction, was consequently a blank.

She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be
put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between
espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which
had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to
revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her
to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined
her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour.
She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who
was married, and settled in Donwell.

The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;
and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and
unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the
gravel walk--a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with
her seemingly with ceremonious civility.

Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was
feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to
understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.
She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her
doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had
been talked almost all the time--till just at last, when Mrs. Martin's
saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had
brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very
room she had been measured last September, with her two friends. There
were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window.
_He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour,
the party, the occasion--to feel the same consciousness, the same
regrets--to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they
were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect,
as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage
reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness
of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given
to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months
ago!--Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might
resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She
would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had
the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a
_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she
have done otherwise?--Impossible!--She could not repent. They must be
separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process--so much
to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little
consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to
procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The
refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.

It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither
"master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the
man believed they were gone to Hartfield.

"This is too bad," cried Emma, as they turned away. "And now we shall
just miss them; too provoking!--I do not know when I have been so
disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her
murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both--such being
the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage
stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were
standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of
them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound--for Mr. Weston
immediately accosted her with,

"How d'ye do?--how d'ye do?--We have been sitting with your father--glad
to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow--I had a letter this
morning--we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty--he is at
Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be
so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I
was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have
just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall
enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could
wish."

There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the
influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was
by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not
less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was
enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in
their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits.
The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in
the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now
be talked of no more.

Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which
allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command,
as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened,
and smiled, and congratulated.

"I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield," said he, at the conclusion.

Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his
wife.

"We had better move on, Mr. Weston," said she, "we are detaining the
girls."

"Well, well, I am ready;"--and turning again to Emma, "but you must
not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only
had _my_ account you know; I dare say he is really nothing
extraordinary:"--though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were
speaking a very different conviction.

Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a
manner that appropriated nothing.

"Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock," was Mrs.
Weston's parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only
for her.

"Four o'clock!--depend upon it he will be here by three," was Mr.
Weston's quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore
a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as
before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least
must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw
something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.

"Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?"--was a
question, however, which did not augur much.

But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma
was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.

The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful
pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that
she was to think of her at four.

"My dear, dear anxious friend,"--said she, in mental soliloquy, while
walking downstairs from her own room, "always overcareful for every
body's comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,
going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right."
The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. "'Tis twelve;
I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this
time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the
possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him
soon."

She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few
minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's
being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his
very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her
share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.

The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually
before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had
been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height,
air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great
deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and
sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was
a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her
that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted
they soon must be.

He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the
eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel
earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.

"I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you
all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I
used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help
getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in
upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal
more than any little exertion it needs."

"It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young
man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;
but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing."

The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the
conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly
allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to
Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself
to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but
one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That
he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,
passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a
falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had
no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a
state of no common enjoyment.

Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening
acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a
horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large
neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were
several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was
it a musical society?"

But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance
proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while
their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his
mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much
warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his
father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional
proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it
worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise
beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but,
undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood
what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's
marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must
rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing
must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on
him."

He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits,
without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it
was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's
character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if
resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its
object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of
her person.

"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for," said he; "but I
confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a
very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that
I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston."

"You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,"
said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with
pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such
words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty
young woman."

"I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it, (with a
gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom
I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my
terms."

Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from
their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind,
had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered
as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more
of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were
agreeable.

She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick
eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy
expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was
confident that he was often listening.

Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,
was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from
approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting
to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from
the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of
any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it
were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could
now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a
glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all
his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.
Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils
of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed
anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which,
however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till
after another night.

A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for
Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else." His son,
too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,

"As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity
of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore
may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with
a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near
Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,
I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not
the proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any
family of that name?"

"To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her
house--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted
with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl
she is. Call upon her, by all means."

"There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man;
"another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance
at Weymouth which--"

"Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done
cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;
any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw
her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed
with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough
to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight."

The son looked convinced.

"I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very
elegant young woman."

He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to
doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort
of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought
only ordinarily gifted with it.

"If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she,
"I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and
hear her--no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an
aunt who never holds her tongue."

"You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?" said Mr.
Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; "then give
me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young
lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very
worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely
glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to
shew you the way."

"My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me."

"But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,
quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many
houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,
unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you
had best cross the street."

Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,
and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, "My good friend,
this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees
it, and as to Mrs. Bates's, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,
step, and jump."

They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a
graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained
very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now
engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full
confidence in their comfort.



CHAPTER VI


The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.
Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had
been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till
her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk,
immediately fixed on Highbury.--"He did not doubt there being very
pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always
chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,
would be his constant attraction."--Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood
for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with
him. They walked thither directly.

Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for
half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew
nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,
therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in
arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in
company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him
was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends
for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It
was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his
duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to
her--nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as
a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma
to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of
the morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour
or two--first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards
in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield
sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear; and when their going farther was
resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole
village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than
Emma could have supposed.

Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He
begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and
which had been the home of his father's father; and on recollecting that
an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of
her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in
some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they
shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must
be very like a merit to those he was with.

Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it
could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting
himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of
insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him
justice.

Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though
the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses
were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any
run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by
any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of
the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for
a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly
populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;--but such
brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for
which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established
among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately
interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of
passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed
windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,
and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault
in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it
was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the
very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every
fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived
the former good old days of the room?--She who could do any thing in
Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction
that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted
to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be
persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could
not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars
were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that
the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there
would be the smallest difficulty in every body's returning into their
proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent
on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of
the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.
He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social
inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of
Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his
indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of
mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.
It was but an effusion of lively spirits.

At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown;
and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma
recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had
paid it.

"Yes, oh! yes"--he replied; "I was just going to mention it. A very
successful visit:--I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much
obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken
me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I
was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes
would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and
I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him--but there
was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found,
when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I had
been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour.
The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before."

"And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?"

"Ill, very ill--that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look
ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies
can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so
pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.--A most
deplorable want of complexion."

Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's
complexion. "It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not
allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and
delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of
her face." He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had
heard many people say the same--but yet he must confess, that to him
nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where
features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all;
and where they were good, the effect was--fortunately he need not
attempt to describe what the effect was.

"Well," said Emma, "there is no disputing about taste.--At least you
admire her except her complexion."

He shook his head and laughed.--"I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her
complexion."

"Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?"

At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed,
"Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of
their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he
says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.
If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove
myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must
buy something at Ford's. It will be taking out my freedom.--I dare say
they sell gloves."

"Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will
be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because
you were Mr. Weston's son--but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your
popularity will stand upon your own virtues."

They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of "Men's Beavers"
and "York Tan" were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he
said--"But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,
you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_
_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of
public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in
private life."

"I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her
party at Weymouth."

"And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
very unfair one. It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree
of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.--I
shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow."

"Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But
her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very
reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any
body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance
with her."

"May I, indeed?--Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so
well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a
little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,
warm-hearted woman. I like them all."

"You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude; what she is
destined to be?"

"Yes--(rather hesitatingly)--I believe I do."

"You get upon delicate subjects, Emma," said Mrs. Weston smiling;
"remember that I am here.--Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say
when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little
farther off."

"I certainly do forget to think of _her_," said Emma, "as having ever
been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend."

He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.

When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, "Did
you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?" said Frank
Churchill.

"Ever hear her!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to
Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.
She plays charmingly."

"You think so, do you?--I wanted the opinion of some one who
could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with
considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.--I am
excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right
of judging of any body's performance.--I have been used to hear her's
admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:--a
man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman--engaged to
her--on the point of marriage--would yet never ask that other woman
to sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down
instead--never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.
That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof."

"Proof indeed!" said Emma, highly amused.--"Mr. Dixon is very musical,
is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,
than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year."

"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a
very strong proof."

"Certainly--very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger
than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable
to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love--more ear
than eye--a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.
How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?"

"It was her very particular friend, you know."

"Poor comfort!" said Emma, laughing. "One would rather have a stranger
preferred than one's very particular friend--with a stranger it might
not recur again--but the misery of having a very particular friend
always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!--Poor
Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland."

"You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she
really did not seem to feel it."

"So much the better--or so much the worse:--I do not know which. But
be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her--quickness of friendship, or
dulness of feeling--there was one person, I think, who must have felt
it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous
distinction."

"As to that--I do not--"

"Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's
sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human
being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she
was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses."

"There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all--"
he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, "however, it is
impossible for me to say on what terms they really were--how it might
all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness
outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be
a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct
herself in critical situations, than I can be."

"I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children
and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be
intimate,--that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited
her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a
little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take
disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was,
by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve--I
never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved."

"It is a most repulsive quality, indeed," said he. "Oftentimes very
convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,
but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person."

"Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction
may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an
agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of
conquering any body's reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss
Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think
ill of her--not the least--except that such extreme and perpetual
cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea
about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to
conceal."

He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and
thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,
that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was
not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some
of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better
than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate--his feelings
warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr.
Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at,
and would not join them in finding much fault with. No, he could not
believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for
having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not
think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample
room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who
wanted more.

Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.
Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many
advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no
judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma,
in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking
about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in
life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the
inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or
a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe
could not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would
willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.



CHAPTER VII


Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the
following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have
his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and
he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner,
but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut.
There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over
on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it
which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of
plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart,
which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity,
extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be
doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his
father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear
in general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only
called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs.
Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as
quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that "all young
people would have their little whims."

With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit
hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston
was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made
himself--how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He
appeared to have a very open temper--certainly a very cheerful and
lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal
decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of
talking of him--said he would be the best man in the world if he were
left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he
acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to
speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for
such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to
denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination
had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her,
of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own
indifference--(for still her resolution held of never marrying)--the
honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint
acquaintance.

Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must
have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her
extremely--thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so
much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him
harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, "all young people would have their
little whims."

There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so
leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of
Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made
for the little excesses of such a handsome young man--one who smiled so
often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be
softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles--Mr. Knightley.
The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was
silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself,
over a newspaper he held in his hand, "Hum! just the trifling, silly
fellow I took him for." She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's
observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his
own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.

Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and
Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly
opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma
want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly
the advice they gave.

This was the occurrence:--The Coles had been settled some years in
Highbury, and were very good sort of people--friendly, liberal, and
unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade,
and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country,
they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little
company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had
brought them a considerable increase of means--the house in town had
yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With
their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their
inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their number
of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were,
in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield.
Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body
for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the
single men, had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma
could hardly suppose they would presume to invite--neither Donwell, nor
Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did;
and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving
her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very
respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not
for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit
them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from
herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.

But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks
before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her
very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their
invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.
Weston's accounting for it with "I suppose they will not take the
liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite
sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of
refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled there,
consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred
again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted
to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They
had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before,
and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might
not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare
possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and
her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be
intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.

It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at
Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first
remark, on reading it, was that "of course it must be declined," she so
very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their
advice for her going was most prompt and successful.

She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely
without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so
properly--there was so much real attention in the manner of it--so much
consideration for her father. "They would have solicited the honour
earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from
London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of
air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour
of his company." Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being
briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting
his comfort--how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be
depended on for bearing him company--Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked
into an acquiescence of his daughter's going out to dinner on a day now
near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for _his_
going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be
too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.

"I am not fond of dinner-visiting," said he--"I never was. No more is
Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole
should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come
in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us--take us
in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so
reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the
evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any
body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine
with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take
care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what
it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy." Then turning to Mrs.
Weston, with a look of gentle reproach--"Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not
married, you would have staid at home with me."

"Well, sir," cried Mr. Weston, "as I took Miss Taylor away, it is
incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.
Goddard in a moment, if you wish it."

But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing,
not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how
to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately
arranged.

With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking
as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard
for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James
could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written
to Mrs. Cole."

"You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say
that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline
their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course.
But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be
done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be
wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never
been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have
no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there,
you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again;
and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying late.
You will get very tired when tea is over."

"But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?"

"Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many
people talking at once. You will not like the noise."

"But, my dear sir," cried Mr. Weston, "if Emma comes away early, it will
be breaking up the party."

"And no great harm if it does," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The sooner every
party breaks up, the better."

"But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma's going
away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured
people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must
feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss
Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in
the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am
sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have
been your neighbours these _ten_ years."

"No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to
you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any
pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole
never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but
he is bilious--Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means
of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure,
rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a
little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You
will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends."

"Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no
scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am
only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being
exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you
know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by
yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time--and the idea of
that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit
up."

He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that,
if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if
hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should
sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every
thing were safe in the house, as usual.



CHAPTER VIII


Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner
waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious
for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection
which could be concealed.

He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had
done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion
of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.
He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him,
Emma thus moralised to herself:--

"I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things
do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent
way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.--It
depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this
differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or
been ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of
a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own
vanities.--No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly."

With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for
a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by
inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing
how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were
now seeing them together for the first time.

She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than
his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.

Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left
the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after
dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her
dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping
them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever
unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged
them to practise during the meal.--She had provided a plentiful dinner
for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat
it.

She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and was pleased to see
that it was Mr. Knightley's; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,
having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and
independence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could,
and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.
She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from
her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.

"This is coming as you should do," said she; "like a gentleman.--I am
quite glad to see you."

He thanked her, observing, "How lucky that we should arrive at the same
moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether
you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.--You
might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner."

"Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of
consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be
beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but
with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always
observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_ you have
nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You
are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_ I shall really
be very happy to walk into the same room with you."

"Nonsensical girl!" was his reply, but not at all in anger.

Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as
with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could
not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for.
When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of
admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached
her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,
and at dinner she found him seated by her--and, as she firmly believed,
not without some dexterity on his side.

The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family,
the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the
evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already,
at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be
general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could
fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour.
The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was
the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of
her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found
it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy,
received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been
calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had
been struck by the sight of a pianoforte--a very elegant looking
instrument--not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the
substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of
surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations
on Miss Bates's, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from
Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and
niece--entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates's account,
Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could
possibly have ordered it--but now, they were both perfectly satisfied
that it could be from only one quarter;--of course it must be from
Colonel Campbell.

"One can suppose nothing else," added Mrs. Cole, "and I was only
surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,
had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as
any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse
to surprize her."

Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were
enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still
listen to Mrs. Cole.

"I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me
more satisfaction!--It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who
plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite
a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine
instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves
a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole,
I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the
drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little
girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of
it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not
any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old
spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.--I was saying this to
Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so
particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself
in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so
obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that
really is the reason why the instrument was bought--or else I am sure
we ought to be ashamed of it.--We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse
may be prevailed with to try it this evening."

Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing
more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned
to Frank Churchill.

"Why do you smile?" said she.

"Nay, why do you?"

"Me!--I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich
and so liberal.--It is a handsome present."

"Very."

"I rather wonder that it was never made before."

"Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before."

"Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument--which must
now be shut up in London, untouched by any body."

"That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
Bates's house."

"You may _say_ what you chuse--but your countenance testifies that your
_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine."

"I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably
suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what
there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can
be?"

"What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?"

"Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must
know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and
perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young
woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I
told you that your suspicions would guide mine."

"If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in
them."

"Mr. Dixon.--Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the
joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you
know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance."

"Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had
entertained before.--I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions
of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either
that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune
to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a little
attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing
exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for
her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells
to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance;
there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her
native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.--In the summer it might
have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the
months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would
be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare
say in her's. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though
you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what
they are."

"And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's
preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very
decided."

"And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?--A water
party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her."

"He did. I was there--one of the party."

"Were you really?--Well!--But you observed nothing of course, for it
seems to be a new idea to you.--If I had been there, I think I should
have made some discoveries."

"I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that
Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught
her.--It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and
alarm was very great and much more durable--indeed I believe it was
half an hour before any of us were comfortable again--yet that was too
general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be
observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made
discoveries."

The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share
in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and
obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table
was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly
right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,

"The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know
a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall
soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon."

"And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must
conclude it to come from the Campbells."

"No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is
not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She
would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have
convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.
Dixon is a principal in the business."

"Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings
carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed
you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as
paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.
But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it
should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in
no other light than as an offering of love."

There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed
real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects
took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert
succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the
usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright
silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the
other--nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news,
and heavy jokes.

The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other
ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree
of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her
dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and
the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,
cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many
alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed
affection. There she sat--and who would have guessed how many tears she
had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and
seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say
nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax
did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been
glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the
mortification of having loved--yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in
vain--by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself
beloved by the husband of her friend.

In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the
secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,
and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the
subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of
consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush
of guilt which accompanied the name of "my excellent friend Colonel
Campbell."

Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested
by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her
perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and
to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish
of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the
fair heroine's countenance.

They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first
of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the
handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates
and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle,
where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would
not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be thinking.
She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She introduced him
to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard
what each thought of the other. "He had never seen so lovely a face, and
was delighted with her naivete." And she, "Only to be sure it was paying
him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a
little like Mr. Elton." Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned
from her in silence.

Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first
glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room--hated
sitting long--was always the first to move when he could--that his
father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over
parish business--that as long as he had staid, however, it had been
pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike,
sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether--thought it
so abundant in agreeable families--that Emma began to feel she had been
used to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the
society in Yorkshire--the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe,
and the sort; and could make out from his answers that, as far as
Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their
visitings were among a range of great families, none very near; and
that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even
chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going;
that they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that, though
he had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty, without
considerable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away, or introduce
an acquaintance for a night.

She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at
its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at
home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did
not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his
aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing
it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could
_with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which
his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to
go abroad--had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel--but she
would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he said,
he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.

The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be
good behaviour to his father.

"I have made a most wretched discovery," said he, after a short pause.--
"I have been here a week to-morrow--half my time. I never knew days fly
so fast. A week to-morrow!--And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself.
But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!--I hate the
recollection."

"Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out
of so few, in having your hair cut."

"No," said he, smiling, "that is no subject of regret at all. I have
no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be
seen."

The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When
Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before,
she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss
Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.

"What is the matter?" said she.

He started. "Thank you for rousing me," he replied. "I believe I have
been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a
way--so very odd a way--that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw
any thing so outree!--Those curls!--This must be a fancy of her own. I
see nobody else looking like her!--I must go and ask her whether it
is an Irish fashion. Shall I?--Yes, I will--I declare I will--and you
shall see how she takes it;--whether she colours."

He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss
Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady,
as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in
front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.

Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.

"This is the luxury of a large party," said she:--"one can get near
every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk
to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like
yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how
Miss Bates and her niece came here?"

"How?--They were invited, were not they?"

"Oh! yes--but how they were conveyed hither?--the manner of their
coming?"

"They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?"

"Very true.--Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad
it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and
cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw
her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could
not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,
and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess
how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made
my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be
at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making
her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you
may be sure. 'Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!'--but with many,
many thanks--'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's
carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.' I was quite
surprized;--very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a
very kind attention--and so thoughtful an attention!--the sort of thing
that so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing his
usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their
accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not
have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse
for assisting them."

"Very likely," said Emma--"nothing more likely. I know no man more
likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing--to do any thing
really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a
gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane
Fairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;--and for
an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on
more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day--for we arrived
together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that
could betray."

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, smiling, "you give him credit for more simple,
disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss
Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never
been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable
it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane
Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!--What do you say to
it?"

"Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!" exclaimed Emma. "Dear Mrs. Weston, how
could you think of such a thing?--Mr. Knightley!--Mr. Knightley must not
marry!--You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?--Oh! no,
no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's
marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you
should think of such a thing."

"My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want
the match--I do not want to injure dear little Henry--but the idea has
been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to
marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six
years old, who knows nothing of the matter?"

"Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.--Mr.
Knightley marry!--No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt
it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!"

"Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
know."

"But the imprudence of such a match!"

"I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability."

"I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would
be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the
Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax--and is always glad to
shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.
You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!--Oh! no,
no;--every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so
mad a thing."

"Imprudent, if you please--but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,
and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable."

"But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the
least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?--He
is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and
his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of
his brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up
his time or his heart."

"My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves
Jane Fairfax--"

"Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am
sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but--"

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, laughing, "perhaps the greatest good he could
do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home."

"If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a
very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss
Bates belonging to him?--To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking
him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?--'So very
kind and obliging!--But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!'
And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old
petticoat. 'Not that it was such a very old petticoat either--for still
it would last a great while--and, indeed, she must thankfully say that
their petticoats were all very strong.'"

"For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience.
And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed
by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and
if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and
drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a bad
connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have
heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The
interest he takes in her--his anxiety about her health--his concern that
she should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself
so warmly on those points!--Such an admirer of her performance on the
pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen
to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred
to me--this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody--though
we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the
Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting
him. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in
love."

"Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not
think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does
nothing mysteriously."

"I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener
than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of
things, occur to him."

"Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told
her so."

"There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong
notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when
Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner."

"You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have
many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I
believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that
Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax."

They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather
gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most
used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them
that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same
moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the
honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her
conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that
he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very
pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to
lead, she gave a very proper compliance.

She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than
she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in
the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany
her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by
surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her
pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual
followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect
knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing
of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang
together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss
Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could
attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.

With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.
They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the
sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half
Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of
Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices
gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's
marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil
in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley;
consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most
mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great
deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could
not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.
Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never
marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.

Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They
talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly
very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have
struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his
kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in
the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only
his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.

"I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage
more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but
you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to
for such a purpose."

"Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he
replied;--"but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with
such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another
step.

"This present from the Campbells," said she--"this pianoforte is very
kindly given."

"Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent
embarrassment.--"But they would have done better had they given
her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not
enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have
expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."

From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had
had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were
entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual
preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's
second song, her voice grew thick.

"That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--"you have
sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet."

Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not
fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more."
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the
song falls on the second."

Mr. Knightley grew angry.

"That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off
his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that
moment passed near--"Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing
herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on
her."

Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to
be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther
singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse
and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within
five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew
where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every
thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston,
capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible
waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to
Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.

While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on
her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.
Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he
were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur
something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs.
Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else,
and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.

Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and
she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than
five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of
it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a
partner. They were a couple worth looking at.

Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was
growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's
account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again,
they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.

"Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to
her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing
would not have agreed with me, after yours."



CHAPTER IX


Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit
afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she
might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must
be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted
the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a
name behind her that would not soon die away.

Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two
points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not
transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of
Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it
had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission
to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made
it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her
tongue.

The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and
there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the
inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily
grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised
vigorously an hour and a half.

She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise
could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.

"Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!"

"Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's,
than a lamp is like sunshine."

"Oh! dear--I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite
as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body
last night said how well you played."

"Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The
truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,
but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it."

"Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or
that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole
said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal
about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution."

"Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet."

"Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.--There is no
understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you
know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to
teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into
any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?"

"Just as they always do--very vulgar."

"They told me something," said Harriet rather hesitatingly; "but it is
nothing of any consequence."

Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its
producing Mr. Elton.

"They told me--that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday."

"Oh!"

"He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to
dinner."

"Oh!"

"They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know
what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there
again next summer."

"She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should
be."

"She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at
dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry
him."

"Very likely.--I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
girls in Highbury."

Harriet had business at Ford's.--Emma thought it most prudent to go with
her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in
her present state, would be dangerous.

Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always
very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins
and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.--Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;--Mr.
Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the
office-door, Mr. Cole's carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a
stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she
could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with
his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full
basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling
children round the baker's little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she
knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough
still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with
seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.

She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons
appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into
Highbury;--to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the
first place at Mrs. Bates's; whose house was a little nearer
Randalls than Ford's; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their
eye.--Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the
agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to
the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call
on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.

"For my companion tells me," said she, "that I absolutely promised Miss
Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it
myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I
am going now."

"And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope," said
Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield--if
you are going home."

Mrs. Weston was disappointed.

"I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased."

"Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the
way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always
sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and
Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to
do?"

"I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for
my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.
But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument."

"Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should
have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an
indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.
Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be
palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world
at a civil falsehood."

"I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that
you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but
there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite
otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night."

"Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to
you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards.
We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It
will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it."

He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,
returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in,
and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all
the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain
muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be
it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At
last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.

"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs.
Ford.--"Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at
Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,
Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown
home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly--so it had better go
to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,
Mrs. Ford, could not you?"

"It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two
parcels."

"No more it is."

"No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford.

"Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you
please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's--I do not know--No, I
think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and
take it home with me at night. What do you advise?"

"That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,
if you please, Mrs. Ford."

"Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should
not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's."

Voices approached the shop--or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.
Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.

"My dear Miss Woodhouse," said the latter, "I am just run across to
entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,
and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How
do you do, Miss Smith?--Very well I thank you.--And I begged Mrs. Weston
to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding."

"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are--"

"Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;
and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad
to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.--Oh!
then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me
just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so
very happy to see her--and now we are such a nice party, she cannot
refuse.--'Aye, pray do,' said Mr. Frank Churchill, 'Miss Woodhouse's
opinion of the instrument will be worth having.'--But, said I, I shall
be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.--'Oh,' said
he, 'wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;'--For, would you
believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in
the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles.--The rivet
came out, you know, this morning.--So very obliging!--For my mother had
no use of her spectacles--could not put them on. And, by the bye, every
body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said
so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did,
but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing,
then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came
to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I,
Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your
mistress's spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis
sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the
Wallises, always--I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be
uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing
but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value
of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know?
Only three of us.--besides dear Jane at present--and she really eats
nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened
if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats--so I
say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the
middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so
well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took
the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet
him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before--I have so often
heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only
way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We
have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent
apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these
ladies will oblige us."

Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at
last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,

"How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.
I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane
came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well--only a
little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in."

"What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all in
the street.

Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.

"I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.--Oh! my mother's
spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! 'Oh!' said he,
'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind
excessively.'--Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must
say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,
he very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,
most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could....
'Oh!' said he, 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort
excessively.' I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out
the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very
obliging as to take some, 'Oh!' said he directly, 'there is nothing
in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking
home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' That, you know, was so
very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they
are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice--only
we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us
promise to have them done three times--but Miss Woodhouse will be so
good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest
sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr.
Knightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and
certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his
trees--I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was
always famous in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the
other day--for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating
these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed
them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. 'I
am sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will send you another supply; for
I have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me
keep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more,
before they get good for nothing.' So I begged he would not--for really
as to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great
many left--it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept
for Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more,
so liberal as he had been already; and Jane said the same. And when
he was gone, she almost quarrelled with me--No, I should not say
quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite
distressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished
I had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear,
I did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening William
Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of
apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down
and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose.
William Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see
him. But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it
was all the apples of _that_ sort his master had; he had brought them
all--and now his master had not one left to bake or boil. William did
not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had
sold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit
than any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their
being all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be
able to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid
her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for
Mrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks
were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told
me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley
know any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted
to keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it
before I was aware."

Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,
pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.

"Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take
care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase--rather darker
and narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss
Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss
Smith, the step at the turning."



CHAPTER X


The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was
tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,
slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near
her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,
standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.

Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy
countenance on seeing Emma again.

"This is a pleasure," said he, in rather a low voice, "coming at least
ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be
useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed."

"What!" said Mrs. Weston, "have not you finished it yet? you would not
earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate."

"I have not been working uninterruptedly," he replied, "I have been
assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,
it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see
we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be
persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home."

He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently
employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make
her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready
to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready,
Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had not yet
possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion; she
must reason herself into the power of performance; and Emma could not
but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve
never to expose them to her neighbour again.

At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the
powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.
Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma
joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper
discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.

"Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ," said Frank Churchill, with a
smile at Emma, "the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of
Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper
notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would
particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his
friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you
think so?"

Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had
been speaking to her at the same moment.

"It is not fair," said Emma, in a whisper; "mine was a random guess. Do
not distress her."

He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little
doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,

"How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this
occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder
which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to
hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going
forward just at this time?--Do you imagine it to be the consequence
of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only
a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon
contingencies and conveniences?"

He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,

"Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," said she, in a voice of
forced calmness, "I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be
all conjecture."

"Conjecture--aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one
conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this
rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard
at work, if one talks at all;--your real workmen, I suppose, hold their
tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word--Miss
Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the
pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed
for the present."

He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a
little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss
Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.

"If you are very kind," said he, "it will be one of the waltzes we
danced last night;--let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them
as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we
danced no longer; but I would have given worlds--all the worlds one ever
has to give--for another half-hour."

She played.

"What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one
happy!--If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth."

She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something
else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning
to Emma, said,

"Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?--Cramer.--And here
are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might
expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of
Colonel Campbell, was not it?--He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music
here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to
have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing
incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it."

Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;
and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains
of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness,
there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the
amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.--This
amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very
reprehensible feelings.

He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.--Emma
took the opportunity of whispering,

"You speak too plain. She must understand you."

"I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least
ashamed of my meaning."

"But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea."

"I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now
a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does
wrong, she ought to feel it."

"She is not entirely without it, I think."

"I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this
moment--_his_ favourite."

Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.
Knightley on horse-back not far off.

"Mr. Knightley I declare!--I must speak to him if possible, just to
thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;
but I can go into my mother's room you know. I dare say he will come
in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet
so!--Our little room so honoured!"

She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the
casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every
syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as
if it had passed within the same apartment.

"How d' ye do?--how d'ye do?--Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you
for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready
for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here."

So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in
his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,

"How is your niece, Miss Bates?--I want to inquire after you all, but
particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?--I hope she caught no cold
last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is."

And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear
her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave
Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.

"So obliged to you!--so very much obliged to you for the carriage,"
resumed Miss Bates.

He cut her short with,

"I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?"

"Oh! dear, Kingston--are you?--Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she
wanted something from Kingston."

"Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?"

"No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?--Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.
Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in."

"Well," said he, in a deliberating manner, "for five minutes, perhaps."

"And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!--Quite delightful;
so many friends!"

"No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on
to Kingston as fast as I can."

"Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you."

"No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the
pianoforte."

"Well, I am so sorry!--Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last
night; how extremely pleasant.--Did you ever see such dancing?--Was not
it delightful?--Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any
thing equal to it."

"Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should
not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.
Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception,
in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say
something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to
hear it."

"Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so
shocked!--Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!"

"What is the matter now?"

"To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had
a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You
should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never
can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it
would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to the
room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is
going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing...."

"Yes," said Jane, "we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing."

"Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was
open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must
have heard every thing to be sure. 'Can I do any thing for you at
Kingston?' said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you
be going?--You seem but just come--so very obliging of you."

Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted
long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived
to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could
allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield
gates, before they set off for Randalls.



CHAPTER XI


It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been
known of young people passing many, many months successively, without
being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue
either to body or mind;--but when a beginning is made--when the
felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt--it
must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.

Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;
and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded
to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young
people in schemes on the subject. Frank's was the first idea; and his
the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the
difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance.
But still she had inclination enough for shewing people again how
delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced--for
doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane
Fairfax--and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked
aids of vanity--to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in
to see what it could be made to hold--and then in taking the dimensions
of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that
Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little
the largest.

His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's
should be finished there--that the same party should be collected,
and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.
Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;
and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly who
there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space
to every couple.

"You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five," had been repeated many times over. "And there will be the
two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.
Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and
Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five
couple there will be plenty of room."

But soon it came to be on one side,

"But will there be good room for five couple?--I really do not think
there will."

On another,

"And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to
stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.
It will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the
thought of the moment."

Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and
must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert
would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was
put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family
of cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance
who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple
would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what
possible manner they could be disposed of.

The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. "Might not
they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?" It seemed the
best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a
better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about
the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of
health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be
persevered in.

"Oh! no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not
bear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.
So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would
be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do
not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very
thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite
the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening,
and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the
draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not
quite the thing!"

Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of
it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now
closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only
in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on
Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before
had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured
to be made out quite enough for ten.

"We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room. Ten
couple may stand here very well."

Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could be
worse than dancing without space to turn in?"

"Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he went on
measuring, and still he ended with,

"I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple."

"No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful
to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be
dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!"

"There is no denying it," he replied. "I agree with you exactly. A crowd
in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures
in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however, having
proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be
a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do not know that--I am
rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well."

Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little
self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of
dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.
Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to
pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,
and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their
acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.

Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered
the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of
the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination
for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors
of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:--a
thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted
upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances
of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the
Crown Inn?"

"The Crown!"

"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot,
my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there.
Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful
welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no
objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel.
Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls
rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt how right you
were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_
to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--I hope you
consent?"

"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for
myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement that could
be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?"

She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully
comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were
necessary to make it acceptable.

"No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--much
worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;
never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they
had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown
in his life--did not know the people who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a
very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere."

"I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, "that one of the
great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger
of any body's catching cold--so much less danger at the Crown than at
Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but
nobody else could."

"Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much mistaken
if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is
extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how
the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house."

"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no
occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening; and it
is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon
heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief."

"Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of
opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never
heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!--I am sure, neither
your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer
it."

"Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a
window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have
often known it done myself."

"Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I
live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,
this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it
over--but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One
cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so
obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what
can be done."

"But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--"

"Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking every
thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at
the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be
so near their own stable."

"So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever
complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could
be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is Mrs. Stokes to be
trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight."

"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be
under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole."

"There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who
is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many
years ago, when I had the measles? 'If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to
wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' How often have I
heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!"

"Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor
little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have
been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day
for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort--which
was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope
whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for
Perry."

"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment," said Frank
Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there
and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you
might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was
desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to
them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing
satisfactorily without you."

Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people
set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.
Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and
very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he,
finding every thing perfect.

"Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places
you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and
forlorn than any thing I could have imagined."

"My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does all that
signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as
clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our
club-nights."

The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never know
when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to
himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares."

One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built,
suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was
the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted
as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary
by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable
supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the
purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward
passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.
Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage;
and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being
miserably crowded at supper.

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches,
&c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched
suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was
pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and
Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of
expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,

"I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know."

And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through
the passage, was calling out,

"You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a
mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs."

"I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our guests
in general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing
must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be."

"Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true. You want your neighbours'
opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief
of them--the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call
upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.--And I do not know
whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of
the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council.
Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?"

"Well--if you please," said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, "if you think
she will be of any use."

"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma. "She
will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She
will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting
Miss Bates."

"But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing
Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know."

Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it
his decided approbation.

"Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at
once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer
person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates.
We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be
happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both."

"Both sir! Can the old lady?"...

"The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great
blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.
Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both." And
away he ran.

Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt,
and her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and
a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it
much less than she had supposed before--indeed very trifling; and here
ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at
least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and
chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left
as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes.--Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already
written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,
which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to
be.

Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer
character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general
and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another
half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms,
some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the
future. The party did not break up without Emma's being positively
secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without
her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, "He has asked her, my
dear. That's right. I knew he would!"



CHAPTER XII


One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely
satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within the granted
term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston's
confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the
Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his
fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take
their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were
entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and
hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--in her opinion, the great risk, of
its being all in vain.

Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His
wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.
All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude
generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her
ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking
indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or
because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he
seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its
exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.
To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,
than,

"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this
trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say
against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--Oh! yes,
I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as
I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's
week's account; much rather, I confess.--Pleasure in seeing
dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--I do not know who
does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward.
Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very
different."

This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not
in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so
indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball,
for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made
her animated--open hearted--she voluntarily said;--

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with
_very_ great pleasure."

It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred
the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more convinced
that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great
deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side--but no
love.

Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two
days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of
every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's
instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--far too unwell to do without
him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband)
when writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual
unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of
herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,
and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.

The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.
Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone
within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,
to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but
for her own convenience.

Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to hurry to
Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there
whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be
expected at Hartfield very soon."

This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once it had
been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The
loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--and all that the young man
might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--Such a delightful evening as
it would have been!--Every body so happy! and she and her partner the
happiest!--"I said it would be so," was the only consolation.

Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of
Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as
for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they
would all be safer at home.

Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this
reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want
of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away
almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He
sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing
himself, it was only to say,

"Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst."

"But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only visit
to Randalls."

"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able to
return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object of
all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town this
spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--I am afraid it
is a custom gone for ever."

"Our poor ball must be quite given up."

"Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the
pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
why are you always so right?"

"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much
rather have been merry than wise."

"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends
on it. Do not forget your engagement."

Emma looked graciously.

"Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more
precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making
me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at
Highbury!"

"As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will
venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure
you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in
coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury."

He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma
was convinced that it had been so.

"And you must be off this very morning?"

"Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I
must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring
him."

"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss
Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have
strengthened yours."

"Yes--I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It
was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained
by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not
to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_
laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my
visit, then"--

He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.

"In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be
quite without suspicion"--

He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew
what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely
serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in
the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,

"You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,
then"--

He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting
on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard
him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.
He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments
passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,

"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to
Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"--

He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--He was more
in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might
have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse
soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.

A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.
Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of
procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that
was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he
might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.

"I shall hear about you all," said he; "that is my chief consolation.
I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged
Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise
it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really
interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters
I shall be at dear Highbury again."

A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the
speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been
the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry
to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his
absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too
much.

It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his
arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to
the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation
of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his
attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy
fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had
_almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of
affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present
she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious
preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,
made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him, in spite of
every previous determination against it.

"I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness,
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself,
this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!--
I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I
were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to
others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank
Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening
with his dear William Larkins now if he likes."

Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say
that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have
contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he
was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable
kindness added,

"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out
of luck; you are very much out of luck!"

It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest
regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure
was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from
headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was
charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of
ill-health.



CHAPTER XIII


Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas
only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good
deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing
Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever
in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and
quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were
his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to
Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could not admit
herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed
for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful; and,
pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults; and
farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or
working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close
of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing
elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his
side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection was always to subside
into friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their
parting; but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,
it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite of
her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never
to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle
than she could foresee in her own feelings.

"I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_," said
she.--"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is
there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not
really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will
not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I
should be sorry to be more."

Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.

"_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very
much in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection
continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most
inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I
imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he
had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been
so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and
language at parting would have been different.--Still, however, I must
be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing
what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look
upon him to be quite the sort of man--I do not altogether build upon
his steadiness or constancy.--His feelings are warm, but I can imagine
them rather changeable.--Every consideration of the subject, in short,
makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I
shall do very well again after a little while--and then, it will be a
good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives,
and I shall have been let off easily."

When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and
she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her
at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had
undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving
the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the
affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable,
and describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed
attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of
apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.
Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was
just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more
might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm
of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more than
once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a
compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in
the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any
such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of
her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all
conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these
words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus
to her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was
remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects
as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;
Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own
imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.

Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material
part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned
to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could
still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her.
Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more
interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation
and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which
clothed it, the "beautiful little friend," suggested to her the
idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections. Was it
impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in
understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness
of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the
probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.--For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.

"I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it. I know
the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have
happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it
will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested
friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure."

It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it
might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter
was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's
engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest
had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill's
disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible
form.--His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.
Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter
from Enscombe before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's
mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound.
She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's
mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.
With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of
insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had
not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual
approach--new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.

Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the
reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could
give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had
a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work
to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed
to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened
submissively, and said "it was very true--it was just as Miss Woodhouse
described--it was not worth while to think about them--and she would not
think about them any longer" but no change of subject could avail, and
the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as
before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.

"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.
You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.
It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure
you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--and it will
be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of
forgetting it."

Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
exclamation. Emma continued,

"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk
less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I
would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my
comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your
duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of
others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.
These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very
important--and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act
upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.
I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes
have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather what
would be kind by me."

This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of
wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really
loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence
of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to
what was right and support her in it very tolerably.

"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--Want
gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody as I do
for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!"

Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so
well, nor valued her affection so highly before.

"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she afterwards to
herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness
of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the
clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It
is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally
beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--I have it not--but
I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is my superior in all the
charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!--I would not change
you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female
breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a
hundred such--And for a wife--a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I
mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!"



CHAPTER XIV


Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be
interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and
it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to
settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or
not pretty at all.

Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make
her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a
point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might
be gone through as soon as possible.

She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to
which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to
lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts
would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but
she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit
was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation
of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to
form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the
nothing-meaning terms of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."

She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.--
She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there
was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;
but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma
thought at least it would turn out so.

As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would not
permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an
awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man
had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the
privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to
depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.
Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just
married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had
been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as
little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as
could be.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted the
house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; "Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--Is not she
very charming?"

There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.

"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman."

"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful."

"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown."

"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love."

"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune; and
she came in his way."

"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she was very
much attached to him."

"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman
who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this
the best offer she was likely to have."

"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever
have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss
Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as
superior as ever;--but being married, you know, it is quite a different
thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and
admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown
himself away, is such a comfort!--She does seem a charming young woman,
just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her 'Augusta.' How
delightful!"

When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see
more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield,
and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter
of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly
attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that
Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and
thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very
superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert
and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of people,
and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that
her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.

Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,
she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it
might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of
her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the
alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.

The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother
Mr. Suckling's seat;"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The
grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed
by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or
imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite struck by the
likeness!--That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room
at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--Mr. Elton was appealed
to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--She could really almost fancy
herself at Maple Grove."

"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the
staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really
could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very
delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to
as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a little
sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body who
sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.
Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will
understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like
what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of
matrimony."

Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.

"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--the
grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand
very much in the same way--just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse
of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in
mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People
who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing
in the same style."

Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that
people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack
an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,

"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you
have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties."

"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you
know. Surry is the garden of England."

"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many
counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as
Surry."

"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.
"I never heard any county but Surry called so."

Emma was silenced.

"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer
at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be our time for
exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare
say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four
perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage,
we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They
would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the
year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their
bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.
When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss
Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr.
Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston
twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their
first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind
here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?"

"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we
are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home
than engage in schemes of pleasure."

"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple
Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol,
'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must
go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau
without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will,
would never stir beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so;
and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary,
when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very
bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in
a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I
perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--(looking
towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great
drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should. Let me recommend
Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse
good."

"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,
does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now."

"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the
waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath
life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,
that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits,
which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its
recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell
on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally
understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived
so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best
society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of
acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have
always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public
with."

It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea
of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an
_introduction_--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend
of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the
help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--The dignity of Miss
Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!

She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have
given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going to Bath was
quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that
the place might suit her better than her father." And then, to prevent
farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.

"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,
a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known
that you are a superior performer."

"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior
performer!--very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial
a quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of
music--passionately fond;--and my friends say I am not entirely devoid
of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play
delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,
comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got
into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to
me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at
Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I
honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future
home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be
disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had
been accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_
_world_ I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear of
retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was
not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who had
no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite
independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I
really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any
sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed to every
luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not
necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. 'But,' said I,
'to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without something of a
musical society. I condition for nothing else; but without music, life
would be a blank to me.'"

"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate
to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and
I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be
pardoned, in consideration of the motive."

"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to
find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little
concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a
musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall
not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be
particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in
practice; for married women, you know--there is a sad story against
them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music."

"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can be no danger,
surely?"

"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,
I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches the
instrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.
Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs.
Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my
word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with
Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has
many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this
morning shut up with my housekeeper."

"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a
train--"

"Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see."

Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing
more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another
subject.

"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at
home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite
with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is
something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one
directly. She was your governess, I think?"

Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly
waited for the affirmative before she went on.

"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very
lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman."

"Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest
model for any young woman."

"And who do you think came in while we were there?"

Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and
how could she possibly guess?

"Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it
lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never
seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s,
I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my
caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.
Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I
think, a very gentleman-like man."

Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could
breathe.

"Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had
supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have
believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call
him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,
vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her
resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether
he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could
not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to
form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.
Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a
gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond
my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank
Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he
would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first
person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes
as regularly into my mind!"--

All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father
had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was
ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.

"Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her
before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she
was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little
quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe
I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and
poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved
young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think
he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not
having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I
said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to
have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews
what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage
Lane."

"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."

"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her
if possible. It was being very deficient."

"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to
be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you
make so much of them."

"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always
wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially,
is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you
know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
they may."

"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what
is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to
such vanity-baits for poor young ladies."

"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere
common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any
encouragement to people to marry."

Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand
_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long,
did they occupy her.



CHAPTER XV


Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as
Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared
whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,
and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment,
but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior
knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;
and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.
Elton's consequence only could surpass.

There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from
his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air
of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury,
as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her
new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging,
following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted
that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed
herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise
passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss
Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with
a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly dressed."

In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at
first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the
little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew
back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and
though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was
necessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too--and Mr.
Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and
negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the
sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very
much.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been
an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under
a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him,
had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object
of their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be
always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which
they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in
contemptuous treatment of Harriet.

Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not
merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to
recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied
with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without
solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and
befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the
third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry
on the subject.--

"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave
about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and
ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very
extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely
well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she
is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word,
I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--And her situation is so calculated
to affect one!--Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour
to do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers
must not be suffered to remain unknown.--I dare say you have heard those
charming lines of the poet,

        'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
          'And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'

We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax."

"I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer--"and
when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and
understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I
have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown."

"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such
obscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed
with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.
I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she
feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I
must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for
timidity--and I am sure one does not often meet with it.--But in those
who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure
you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more
than I can express."

"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of
Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer
than yourself, can shew her any other attention than"--

"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to
act. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will
follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_
have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style
which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the
least inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to
send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_
than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of
thing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been
used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the
other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple
Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we do not
at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.--However, my
resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--I shall certainly have
her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall
have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly
on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very
extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit
her shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my
brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her
extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears
will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners
of either but what is highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often
indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a
seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties."

"Poor Jane Fairfax!"--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this. You
may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment
beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose
that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour,
there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!"

Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively
addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss
Woodhouse." The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared,
and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular
friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active
patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general
way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.

She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for
Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless
simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the
most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and
condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize
was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs.
Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons,
sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was
astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or
the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as
the Vicarage had to offer.

"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--"To chuse to remain here
month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the
mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation,
rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her
with such real, generous affection."

Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells
were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had
promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss
Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
declined it!

"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing
this invitation," was Emma's conclusion. "She must be under some sort
of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great
fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be
with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she
consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."

Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before
the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this
apology for Jane.

"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage,
my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a
good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We
must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for
what she goes to."

"You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax
is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen
her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from
Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her."

Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she
was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently
replied,

"Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather
disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should
have imagined any thing but inviting."

"I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have
been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in
accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may
very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in
spite of the very natural wish of a little change."

Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
minutes silence, he said,

"Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does
not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the
difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken
amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common
civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more
early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we
may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.
And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be
sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind
and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the
respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably
never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can
prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if
not in consciousness."

"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma. Little Henry
was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her
irresolute what else to say.

"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her."

"And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon
stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried
on--"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it
is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or
other."

Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or
some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,

"Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me
a hint of it six weeks ago."

He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
herself know what to think. In a moment he went on--

"That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare
say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall
never ask her."

Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased
enough to exclaim,

"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you."

He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which
shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,

"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?"

"No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,
for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now,
meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any
idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest
wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come
in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married."

Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "No,
Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take
me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure
you." And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has
not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife."

Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. "Well," said
she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"

"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or
wittier than his neighbours."

"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what
she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough
in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for
Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts
her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument
weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation
of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's
acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her
being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor
with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be
continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her
a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring
parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau."

"Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley--"I do not accuse her
of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her
temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;
but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than
she used to be--And I love an open temper. No--till Cole alluded to my
supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax
and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no
thought beyond."

"Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them, "what do
you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?"

"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it
were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me."



CHAPTER XVI


Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was
disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed
in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
never to have a disengaged day.

"I see how it is," said she. "I see what a life I am to lead among you.
Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite
the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very
formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a
disengaged day!--A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have
been at a loss."

No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties
perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for
dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at
the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury
card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a
good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew
them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring
she must return their civilities by one very superior party--in which
her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and
unbroken packs in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the
evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the
refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.

Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at
Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she
should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful
resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for
ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the
usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,
with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.

The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the
Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of
course--and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must
be asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given with
equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased
by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it. "She would rather not
be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite
able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling
uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would
rather stay at home." It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had
she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the
fortitude of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to
give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the
very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.--
Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she
was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often
been.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane
Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.

"This is very true," said she, "at least as far as relates to me, which
was all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--and
always knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--She will
never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her
greater attention than I have done."

Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all
happy.--The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some
weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and
staying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be the very day
of this party.--His professional engagements did not allow of his being
put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening
so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the
utmost that his nerves could bear--and here would be a ninth--and Emma
apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not
being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without
falling in with a dinner-party.

She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by
representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet
he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very
immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to
have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her
instead of his brother.

The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John
Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and
must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the
evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;
and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the
philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the
chief of even Emma's vexation.

The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John
Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being
agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they
waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton,
as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in
silence--wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but
Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk
to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk
with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was
natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,

"I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am
sure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time. I hope you
turned directly."

"I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home before the
rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when
I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk
before breakfast does me good."

"Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine."

"No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out."

Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,

"That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards
from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry
and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The
post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have
lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going
through the rain for."

There was a little blush, and then this answer,

"I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing
older should make me indifferent about letters."

"Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent.
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse."

"You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of
friendship."

"I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly.
"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does."

"Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well--I am
very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I
can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than
to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which
makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every
body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again;
and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office,
I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than
to-day."

"When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,"
said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation which
time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will
generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily
circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old
friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence
you may have as many concentrated objects as I have."

It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant "thank
you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear
in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was
now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such
occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular
compliments to the ladies, was ending with her--and with all his mildest
urbanity, said,

"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning
in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.--Young ladies
are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their
complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?"

"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
solicitude about me."

"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--I
hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very
old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You
do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I
are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest
satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield."

The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he
had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.

By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her
remonstrances now opened upon Jane.

"My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office in the
rain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl, how could you do
such a thing?--It is a sign I was not there to take care of you."

Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.

"Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know
how to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston,
did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our
authority."

"My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly do
feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--Liable
as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly
careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think
requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even
half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough
again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too
reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again."

"Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs.
Elton. "We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"--and nodding
significantly--"there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.
I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning
(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and
bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from
_us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept
such an accommodation."

"You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my early
walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk
somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have
scarcely ever had a bad morning before."

"My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is
(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing
without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,
you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter
myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I
meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as
settled."

"Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent to such
an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand
were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am
not here, by my grandmama's."

"Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness to
employ our men."

Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of
answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.

"The post-office is a wonderful establishment!" said she.--"The
regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do,
and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!"

"It is certainly very well regulated."

"So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that
a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the
kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million, I suppose,
actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad
hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder."

"The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some quickness
of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther
explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are paid for it. That is
the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served
well."

The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual
observations made.

"I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same sort
of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master
teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine
the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very
little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can
get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not
always known their writing apart."

"Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness. I know what
you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest."

"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse; "and
always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston"--with half a sigh and half a
smile at her.

"I never saw any gentleman's handwriting"--Emma began, looking also at
Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending
to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect, "Now, how am
I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking his name at once
before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout
phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that
would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce
his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and
better.--Now for it."

Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--"Mr. Frank Churchill
writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw."

"I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small--wants
strength. It is like a woman's writing."

This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against
the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a
large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any
letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately,
but having answered the letter, had put it away.

"If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I
am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you
remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?"

"He chose to say he was employed"--

"Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince
Mr. Knightley."

"Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr.
Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of
course, put forth his best."

Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was
ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be
allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying--

"Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way."

Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether
the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it
_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full
expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been
in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a
glow both of complexion and spirits.

She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the
expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she
abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt
Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the
room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the
beauty and grace of each.



CHAPTER XVII


When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it
hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so
much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross
Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to
be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton
left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she
soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a
half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding
a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching
cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion;
and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant
to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to
suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity.

"Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June
will soon be here."

"But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked
forward to the summer in general."

"But have you really heard of nothing?"

"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet."

"Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the
difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing."

"I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can
have thought of it as I have done?"

"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know
how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw
a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of
Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every
body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle.
Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all
houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see
you in."

"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,"
said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want
it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would
not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."

"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me
trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be
more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in
a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out
for any thing eligible."

"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to
her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body
trouble."

"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,
or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before
us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve,
and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence,
is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin
inquiring directly."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no
inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When
I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being
long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry
would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human
flesh--but of human intellect."

"Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at
the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to
the abolition."

"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane;
"governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely
different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to
the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But
I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by
applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with
something that would do."

"Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit
your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are;
but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any
thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family
not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of
life."

"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent;
it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I
think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.
A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for."

"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall
be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite
on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the
first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name
your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family
as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you
might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I
really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what
you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and
comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest."

"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such
a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal;
however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted
at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am
obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing
nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I
shall remain where I am, and as I am."

"And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily,
"in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to
watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us."

In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr.
Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object,
and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,

"Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his
gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature
he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,
old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish
you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I
began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I
am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like
it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it
is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being
over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments
now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like
a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style
of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the
minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show
and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a
trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will
look well?"

The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.
Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner,
and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much
expected by the best judges, for surprize--but there was great joy. Mr.
Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry
to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.--That
a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a day
of business in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile
to another man's house, for the sake of being in mixed company till
bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise
of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been
in motion since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been
still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had
been in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man, to
quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the
evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!--Could
he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there
would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather
than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with amazement,
then shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I could not have believed it
even of _him_."

Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was
exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being
principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was
making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the
inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread
abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family
communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he
had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in
the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he
had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.

"Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure; only a few
lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma."

The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking
to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to
every body.

"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say
to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?--Anne,
my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?--In
town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as
impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most
likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all
nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us
again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,
and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.
Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read
it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some
other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the
circumstance to the others in a common way."

Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks
and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was
happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and
open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little occupied
in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her
agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.

Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative
to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,
and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.

It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might
not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly
delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to
be made happy;--from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but
she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have
been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.
Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject
with her.



CHAPTER XVIII


"I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,"
said Mr. Weston.

Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her
by such a hope, smiled most graciously.

"You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he
continued--"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name."

"Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.
Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great
pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage."

"You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.--
He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a
letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my
son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed to me--it
was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I
hardly ever get a letter."

"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.
Weston--(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most
dangerous precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours
follow your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we
married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston, I could
not have believed it of you!"

"Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in a hurry,
merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all coming up to
town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has not been well the
whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--so they are all to
move southward without loss of time."

"Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?"

"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a
considerable journey."

"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than
from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people
of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.
Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--but twice
in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four
horses."

"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that
Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the
sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained, he
said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having
both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree of
weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to
sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word. Certainly,
delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You
must grant me that."

"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my
own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me a formidable
antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--and I assure you,
if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you
would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to
avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her--and I believe I have
caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;
an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?"

"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine
lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land
for"--

Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,

"Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure
you. Do not run away with such an idea."

"Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough
a fine lady as any body ever beheld."

Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.
It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was
_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of
it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.
Weston went on.

"Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--but
this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and
therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health
now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would
not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs.
Churchill's illness."

"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath, or to
Clifton?" "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for
her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now
been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she
begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very
retired."

"Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from
the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You
seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--And
Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy
that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in
herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot
have too many resources--and I feel very thankful that I have so many
myself as to be quite independent of society."

"Frank was here in February for a fortnight."

"So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society
of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call
myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being
such a creature in the world."

This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.
Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,

"My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible.
Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full
of very little else than Mrs. Elton."

He had done his duty and could return to his son.

"When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we
might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome. It has
been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion
he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn
up--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully
desponding. 'How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed
that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so forth--I always
felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.
I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things
are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next."

"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to
a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because
things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity
which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that
he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen's saffron robe
would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those
gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage--we had
disappointments about the carriage;--one morning, I remember, he came to
me quite in despair."

She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly
seized the opportunity of going on.

"You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill
is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than
Enscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable
prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--precisely the
season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at
the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and
never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best
of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather;
there always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we
intended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I
do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the
sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or
to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than
having him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the
state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be
pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally
thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston's
partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most
gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him."

"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion
will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr.
Frank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one
of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly
guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall
judge of him.--I am no flatterer."

Mr. Weston was musing.

"I hope," said he presently, "I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.
Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but
there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to
speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant,
Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have
met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid
to her. She was the instigator. Frank's mother would never have been
slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride
is nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort
of pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless
and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what
inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.
She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman;
but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd
them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is
an upstart."

"Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite
a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to
people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who
are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give
themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them
directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and
encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs,
and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families.
A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West
Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from
Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.
One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is something
direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the
Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and
yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to
my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest
neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven
years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him--I
believe, at least--I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed
the purchase before his death."

They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having
said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.

After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.
Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,
and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed
little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which
nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits
which would have made her prefer being silent.

Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to
leave them early the next day; and he soon began with--

"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the
boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is down at full
length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than
her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to
recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic
them."

"I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all
in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and
happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic."

"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again."

"That is very likely. You think so, do not you?"

"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--or even
may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to
increase as much as they have done lately."

"Increase!"

"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a
great difference in your way of life."

"Difference! No indeed I am not."

"There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than
you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only
one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--When did it happen
before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you
mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought
an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the
Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your
goings-on, is very great."

"Yes," said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all."

"Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less
influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that
Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg
you to send them home."

"No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence. Let them
be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure."

"Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know how
many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of
the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to
attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--what have
they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball talked of,
which never took place. I can understand you--(nodding at Mr. John
Knightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at
once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to
Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from
Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I
cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt
Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better
with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she
is absent one--and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself
or settling his accounts."

Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without
difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.




VOLUME III



CHAPTER I


A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the
nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She
was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all
apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had
really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--but
if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the
two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had
taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two
months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before
her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did
not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be
incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.

She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present
acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something
decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a
crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil
state.

It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen,
before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's
feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been
imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down
for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from
Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick
observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she
must act. They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt
of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt
of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness
in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was
less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably
of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable
effect.

He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he
was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read
his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently
fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed
a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief
on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying
away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old
acquaintance in the street as he passed--he had not stopped, he would
not stop for more than a word--but he had the vanity to think they would
be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer
at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She had no doubt as to his being less
in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed
like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a
dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting
himself with her long.

This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.
He was often hoping, intending to come--but was always prevented. His
aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at
Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was
to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no
service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was
really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at
Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked
back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a
year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care
and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have many
years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on, by all
his father's doubts, to say that her complaints were merely imaginary,
or that she was as strong as ever.

It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could
not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and
suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls
communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to
Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of
an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A
ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit
expected from the change.

Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,
and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months
before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--for the
house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with
the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he
could even wish.

Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was
considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She
hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.

Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted.
It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be
really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to
a young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The
difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make
the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen
miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street--was
a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be
spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in
London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very
distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!

One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this
removal,--the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before,
but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,
however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and
very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from
Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and
that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at
any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.

Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood
between the young people of Highbury and happiness.

Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.
May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to
spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely
hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any
thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.



CHAPTER II


No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,
the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank
Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before
dinner, and every thing was safe.

No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room
at the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a
common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,
for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of
the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him,
and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company.
She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the
Randalls party just sufficiently before them.

Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not
say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should
be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another
carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great
surprize. "So unreasonably early!" she was going to exclaim; but she
presently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming,
like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and
they were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins,
who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing
earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company
might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory
inspection.

Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston
depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man
who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first
distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but
a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher
character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a
man what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party
walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing
else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe
in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though
_May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.

Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy
councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door
to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be
brought by the Eltons.

Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,
which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to
the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient
to begin, or afraid of being always near her.

Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I
have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.
It cannot be long, I think, before she comes."

A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,
said,

"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward."

Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties
passed.

"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We
thought you were to bring them."

The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma
longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how
he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,
by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.

In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--"I
will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father:
"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was
following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion
of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,
though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.

"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you
I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely
pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him
a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and
approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.
You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor
me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very
cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them
much better."

While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but
when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies
just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.

Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our
carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so
extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What
a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you
were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.
You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_."

Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into
the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.
Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood
by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words,
were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in
talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her
being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was
heard,

"So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not
care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--(as soon
as she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is
admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could
not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you
ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's
lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as
I came in; she was standing in the entrance. 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' said
I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--"Very
well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear
it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often,
and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed.
Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent
time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most
comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you,
Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note,
or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were
such neighbours. I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am--.' Thank
you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her
take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl--
Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!
Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three
others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel
Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did
not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but
Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step
upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank
Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in
fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of
your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank
Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do
you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite
in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know
(eyeing Emma most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word,
Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are
a judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her
hair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I
declare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a
moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This
is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is.
Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How
do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through
the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway
and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr.
Arthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much
obliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can
this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming
to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am
quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A
little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes.
Every thing so good!"

Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss
Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse
of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind
her.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not
determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look,
compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently
wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do you like
my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my
hair?"--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient
politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of dress in
general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's
eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have
no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish
to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except
mine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall
see if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.
I like him very well."

At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not
but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear
more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till
another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly
forward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,

"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--I was
this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for
tidings of us."

"Jane!"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and
displeasure.--"That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I
suppose."

"How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper.

"Not at all."

"You are ungrateful."

"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?" Then changing from a frown to a
smile--"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--Where
is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?"

Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked
off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and
Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be
laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton
must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which
interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma
heard the sad truth with fortitude.

"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?" said Mr. Weston.
"She will think Frank ought to ask her."

Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and
boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect
approbation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting _him_
to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to
persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.--Mr. Weston and Mrs.
Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed.
Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always
considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to make
her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this
time, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to
begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston
might be his son's superior.--In spite of this little rub, however,
Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length
of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours
of unusual festivity before her.--She was more disturbed by Mr.
Knightley's not dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among
the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not
classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who
were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were
made up,--so young as he looked!--He could not have appeared to greater
advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall,
firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of
the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes;
and, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of
young men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer,
and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner,
with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the
trouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but
in general he was looking grave. She wished he could love a ballroom
better, and could like Frank Churchill better.--He seemed often
observing her. She must not flatter herself that he thought of her
dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel
afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.
They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank
Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.

The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant
attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed
happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom
bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in
the very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very
recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually
are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.--The two
last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;--the
only young lady sitting down;--and so equal had been hitherto the
number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the
wonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton
sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible
to be avoided: she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him
every moment to escape into the card-room.

Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room where
the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front
of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining
it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or
speaking to those who were close to her.--Emma saw it. She was not yet
dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore
leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw
it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly
behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr.
Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which
just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that
his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only
listening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The
kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say,
"Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?" to which his prompt reply was, "Most
readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me."

"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no
dancer."

"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great
pleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old
married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very
great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.
Gilbert."

"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith." "Miss
Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--and if I
were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston.
You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your
command--but my dancing days are over."

Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and
mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the
amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.--She looked round for a moment; he
had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself
for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him
and his wife.

She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her
face might be as hot.

In another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading
Harriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more
delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,
both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
catch his eye again.

His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;
and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for
the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment
and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,
flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.

Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very
foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though
growing very like her;--_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing
audibly to her partner,

"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very good-natured,
I declare."

Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from
that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and
taking up her spoon.

"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet. Mrs.
Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will
be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One door
nailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must.
Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!--so
gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!--Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I
said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and
nobody missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a
vast deal of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits
and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some
of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were
amused, and who were your partners. 'Oh!' said I, 'I shall not forestall
Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell
you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton,
I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.' My dear
sir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not rather?--I am
not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and
me on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is
going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we
all follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we
are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no,
there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd!
I was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I never saw any
thing equal to the comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling
you of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.--The
baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there
was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at
first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled
enough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves
better than sweetbread and asparagus--so she was rather disappointed,
but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of
its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much
concerned!--Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have
supposed any thing!--Such elegance and profusion!--I have seen nothing
like it since--Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere,
so that Jane is not in a draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence.
Oh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill--only
it seems too good--but just as you please. What you direct in this house
cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes
for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but
it smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning."

Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;
but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited
him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his
reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.

"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he. "Emma, why is it
that they are your enemies?"

He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,
"_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
be.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,
that you did want him to marry Harriet."

"I did," replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."

He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he
only said,

"I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections."

"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell
me I am wrong?"

"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong,
I am sure the other tells you of it."

"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is
a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I
was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a
series of strange blunders!"

"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the
justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has
chosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which
Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless
girl--infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a
woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected."

Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of
Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.

"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing?--Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!
Every body is asleep!"

"I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted."

"Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley.

She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask
me."

"Will you?" said he, offering his hand.

"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are
not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."

"Brother and sister! no, indeed."



CHAPTER III


This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable
pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which
she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely
glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the
Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much
alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was
peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few
minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the
occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward
to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--From
Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the
ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly
opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior
creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could
harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious
courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for
supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther
requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and
Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer
must be before her!

She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he
could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was
to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.

Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all
to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up
for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa,
when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she
had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet
leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince
her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white
and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--The iron gates and the
front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--they were all three soon in
the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.

A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,
and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the
suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted
with the whole.

Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.
Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and
taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough
for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile beyond Highbury,
making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became
for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies
had advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small
distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a
party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and
Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling
on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at
the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.
But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much from cramp
after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such
a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--and in this state, and
exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.

How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more
courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could
not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children,
headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent
in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and more frightened, she
immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a
shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.--She
was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but her
terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather
surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.

In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and
conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his
leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance
at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced
him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,
a mile or two beyond Highbury--and happening to have borrowed a pair
of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to
restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a
few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being
on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The
terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then
their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet
eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength
enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.
It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other
place.

This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of
Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--He dared
not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him
not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her
safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people
in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful
blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.

Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young woman
thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain
ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at
least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician
have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and
heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been
at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much
more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and
foresight!--especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her
mind had already made.

It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever
occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no
rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened to the very
person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing
to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly was very extraordinary!--And
knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this
period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his
attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.
It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting
consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be
strongly recommending each to the other.

In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him, while
Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror,
her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a
sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's
own account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the
abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was
to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.
She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of
interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme.
It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.

Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of
what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but
she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour
it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those
who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in
the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's
ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat,
and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their
promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort
to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his
neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss
Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had
the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very
indifferent--which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,
and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had
an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man,
for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent
illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.

The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took
themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have
walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history
dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her
nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and
John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the
gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the
slightest particular from the original recital.



CHAPTER IV


A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one
morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down
and hesitating, thus began:

"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should
like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it
will be over."

Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a
seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her
words, for something more than ordinary.

"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have
no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered
creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have
the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and
I dare say you understand me."

"Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do."

"How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet,
warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary
in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the
two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round
to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire
her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and
all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall
never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together,
it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I
have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to
have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that
very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it
all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you
may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel
holds?" said she, with a conscious look.

"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?"

"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
very much."

She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_
_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within
abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,
which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,
excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.

"Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect."

"No, indeed I do not."

"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last
times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my
sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the
very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new
penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none
about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he
cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he
gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making
a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now
and then as a great treat."

"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,
and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the
finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none
about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my
pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual
blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what
else?"

"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected
it, you did it so naturally."

"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!"
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord
bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a
piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I
never was equal to this."

"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something
still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because
this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister
never did."

Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an
old pencil,--the part without any lead.

"This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one
morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly
the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_
_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was
about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about
brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out
his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and
it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the
table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I
dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment."

"I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking
about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we
liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I
perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was
not he? I have an idea he was standing just here."

"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot
recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I
am now."--

"Well, go on."

"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that
I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see
me do it."

"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?"

"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I
could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you
know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but
had not resolution enough to part with them."

"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not
a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be
useful."

"I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable
look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is
an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton."

"And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?"

She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already
made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no
fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight
after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite
undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the
information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course
of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise
you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's
silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never
marry."

Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,

"Never marry!--This is a new resolution."

"It is one that I shall never change, however."

After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope
it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"

"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could
just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!"

She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no
farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps
Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were
totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too
much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such
an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly
resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at
once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always
best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any
application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the
judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided,
and thus spoke--

"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your
resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from
an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your
superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?"

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose--
Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a
distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of
the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially."

"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you
was enough to warm your heart."

"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very
recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him
coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In
one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!"

"It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes,
honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that
it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not
advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage
for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not
let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be
observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I
give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on
the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I
know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very
wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt,
and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but
yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been
matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not
have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your
raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall
always know how to value."

Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was
very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.
Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be
saving her from the danger of degradation.



CHAPTER V


In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon
Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The
Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use
to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again
delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely
to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able
to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from
being hurried into a delightful situation against her will.

Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly
taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike
him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit
of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing
declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's
guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and
indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devoting him
to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley
began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He
could not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between
them--he thought so at least--symptoms of admiration on his side, which,
having once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely
void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors
of imagination. _She_ was not present when the suspicion first arose.
He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he
had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from
the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When he was
again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen;
nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and
his fire at twilight,

"Myself creating what I saw,"

brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private
liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.

He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend
his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined
them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like
themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the
weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates
and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on
reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of
visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in
and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and
after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened
to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most
obliging invitation.

As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback.
The gentlemen spoke of his horse.

"By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what
became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?"

Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he ever had
any such plan."

"Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago."

"Me! impossible!"

"Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what
was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was
extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she
thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You
must remember it now?"

"Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment."

"Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must have
dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if
you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home."

"What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry and a
carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can
afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"

"No, sir," replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from
nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having
mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all
these particulars--but as she declares she never heard a syllable of
it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.
I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--and when I have gone
through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.
Perry."

"It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such
a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you
should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage! and
his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--just
what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little
premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream
certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.
Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?"

Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to
prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr.
Weston's hint.

"Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain
to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject,
there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean
to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest
dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge
that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself
mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as
ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only
thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should
have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning
because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember
grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we
had been walking to--very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to
Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed
I do not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;
she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go
beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that
I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having
never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before
I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and
then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like
Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least
thing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember
Mrs. Perry's coming.--Extraordinary dream, indeed!"

They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss
Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where
he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had
involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy
with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited
at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank
Churchill the determination of catching her eye--he seemed watching her
intently--in vain, however, if it were so--Jane passed between them
into the hall, and looked at neither.

There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be
borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the
large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and
which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her
father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his
daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly,
and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.

"Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind
him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken away their
alphabets--their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it?
This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather
as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one
morning. I want to puzzle you again."

Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table
was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much
disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words
for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The quietness
of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had
often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had
occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting,
with tender melancholy, over the departure of the "poor little boys,"
or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how
beautifully Emma had written it.

Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight
glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to
Emma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them
all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little
apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile
pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and
buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of
looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after
every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to
work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The
word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a
blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible.
Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be,
was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his
favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some
decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet
him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and
trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank
Churchill's part.

With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm
and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short
word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He
saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining,
though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure;
for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank Churchill next say,
with a glance towards Jane, "I will give it to her--shall I?"--and as
clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you
must not; you shall not, indeed."

It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without
feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed
over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate
civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity
to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment
for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it
to be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his;
her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning,
the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was
evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed
more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not
know that proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even
an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word
that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the
attack, and turned towards her aunt.

"Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken
a word--"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be
going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking
for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good
night."

Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had
preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but
so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley
thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards
her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards
looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was looking also--it was growing
dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley
could not tell.

He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of
what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his
observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--an anxious
friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her
in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was
his duty.

"Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the
poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the
word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the
one, and so very distressing to the other."

Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true
explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was
really ashamed of having ever imparted them.

"Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere
joke among ourselves."

"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr.
Churchill."

He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather
busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in
doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--fruitless
interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to
declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her,
to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference,
rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the
remembrance of neglect in such a cause.

"My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you
think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the
gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"

"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--Why
do you make a doubt of it?"

"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or
that she admired him?"

"Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--"Never, for the
twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could
it possibly come into your head?"

"I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between
them--certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be
public."

"Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can
vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--very sorry
to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no
admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which
have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances--feelings
rather of a totally different nature--it is impossible exactly to
explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the part which is
capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far
from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in
the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I
can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's
indifference."

She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction
which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have
prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his
suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a
circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet
hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much
irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute
fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost
every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty
leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.



CHAPTER VI


After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.
Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification
of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such
importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at
present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted
to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings' coming had
been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health
seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.
Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much
increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was
by the approach of it.

Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal
of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all
wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought
at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that every thing
need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though
the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the
autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was
to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the
idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what
every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed
to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the
chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a
quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and
preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the
Eltons and the Sucklings.

This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but
feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston
that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had
failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that
as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she
had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great
dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly
aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done
without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and
she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which
she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would
probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs.
Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her
outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her
reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.

"I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably.
"But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without
numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its
own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not
leave her out."

Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton
was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to
pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing
into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were
inadequate to such an attack.

"Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?" she cried.--"And such weather
for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What
are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing
done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful
exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston."

"You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may
be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are ripening
fast."

If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the "Oh! I should like
it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was
famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:
but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt
the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again
and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely
gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment
as she chose to consider it.

"You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come. Name your
day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?"

"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others whom
I would wish to meet you."

"Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady
Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me."

"I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble you to
give any other invitations."

"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid
of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave
it all to me. I will invite your guests."

"No,"--he calmly replied,--"there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and
that one is--"

"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose," interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.

"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage such
matters myself."

"Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.--"You are a humourist, and may say what you
like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--Jane and her
aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting
the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them."

"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss
Bates in my way home."

"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It
is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I
shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging
on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be
more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be
no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about
your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under
trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out
of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural
and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?"

"Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have
the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of
gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is
best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house."

"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye,
can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--Pray be
sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect
anything--"

"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."

"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely
clever."

"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and
would spurn any body's assistance."

"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by. I
really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life
I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever
so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in
winter there is dirt."

"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is
never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if
you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish every thing to
be as much to your taste as possible."

"That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--Yes,
believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please
me."

Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He
wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to
eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the
specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at
Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.

He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for
his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two
years. "Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go
very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls
walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now,
in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again
exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and
any other of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to
his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He
thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--very kind
and sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not fond of dining
out."

Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence. The
invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like
Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment
to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of
pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to
join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could
have been dispensed with.--Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that
he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in
writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.

In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to
Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was
settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing
exactly right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was
safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of
this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the
Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was
happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what
had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not
to heat themselves.--Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on
purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when
all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and
sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was
satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look
around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular
observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must
ever be so interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed
the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered--its ample gardens
stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with
all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance
of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance
had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike
it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many
comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought
to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect
for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted
in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had;
but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them
neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were
pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it
was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the
strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank
Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,
in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,
was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or
spoken of.--"The best fruit in England--every body's favourite--always
wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to
gather for one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning
decidedly the best time--never tired--every sort good--hautboy
infinitely superior--no comparison--the others hardly eatable--hautboys
very scarce--Chili preferred--white wood finest flavour of all--price
of strawberries in London--abundance about Bristol--Maple
Grove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly
different--no general rule--gardeners never to be put out of their
way--delicious fruit--only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior
to cherries--currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering
strawberries the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no
longer--must go and sit in the shade."

Such, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only once by
Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to
inquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.--She had some
fears of his horse.

Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged
to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.--A
situation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had
received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not
with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and
splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs.
Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks,
every thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.--On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she
positively refused to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax
continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any
thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge
before.--Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an
acquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was
astonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and
at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a
removal.--"Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the
gardens--all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent."--The
pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,
dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one
another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which
stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed
the finish of the pleasure grounds.--It led to nothing; nothing but a
view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed
intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to
the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be
the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and
the view which closed it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at
nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper
form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of
considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;--and at
the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the
Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and
handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being
oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and
towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet
distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and
Harriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.--There
had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and
turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry
to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now
she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of
prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in
blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.--She joined them at the
wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He
was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma
received a smile which seemed to say, "These are my own concerns. I have
a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of
introducing Robert Martin."--She did not suspect him. It was too old
a story.--Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.--They
took a few turns together along the walk.--The shade was most
refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.

The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;--and they
were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.
Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself
uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing
that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to
coming, with more than common certainty. "His aunt was so much better,
that he had not a doubt of getting over to them."--Mrs. Churchill's
state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such
sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable
dependence--and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,
that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was
prevented coming.--Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under
consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see
what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far
as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at
any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part
of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him,
stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that
Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and
variety which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness
had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them
all to Emma;--fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than
in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and
methodical.--Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma
walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of
the entrance and ground-plot of the house--and was hardly there, when
Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a
look of escape.--Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there
was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in
quest of.

"Will you be so kind," said she, "when I am missed, as to say that I am
gone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it
is, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted,
and I am determined to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to any
body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the
ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be
missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am
gone?"

"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury
alone?"

"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty
minutes."

"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my
father's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage. It can be
round in five minutes."

"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.--And
for _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to
guard others!"

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, "That
can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the
carriage. The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued already."

"I am,"--she answered--"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of
fatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know
at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are
exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have
my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary."

Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into
her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and
watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was
grateful--and her parting words, "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
being sometimes alone!"--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and
to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,
even towards some of those who loved her best.

"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!" said Emma, as she turned back into
the hall again. "I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of
their just horrors, the more I shall like you."

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had
forgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston
would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right
who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by
a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had
lasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of coming,
till very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and
how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have
come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing
like it--almost wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him
like heat--he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
intolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable.

"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still," said Emma.

"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
spared--but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be
going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I
came--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!"

Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of
humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be
his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often
the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking
some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
dining-room--and she humanely pointed out the door.

"No--he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him
hotter." In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her
attention to her father, saying in secret--

"I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man
who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet easy temper
will not mind it."

He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
back all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like
himself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,
at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking
over views in Swisserland.

"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said he. "I shall
never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my
sketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my
poem. I shall do something to expose myself."

"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to
Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England."

"They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for
her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I
assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I
shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I
want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating
eyes may fancy--I am sick of England--and would leave it to-morrow, if
I could."

"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few
hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"

"_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted
in every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate
person."

"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and
eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of
cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on
a par with the rest of us."

"No--I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure."

"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us. It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of
a change. You will stay, and go with us?"

"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening."

"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning."

"No--It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross."

"Then pray stay at Richmond."

"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you
all there without me."

"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your
own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more."

The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others
took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and
disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was
time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final
arrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill's
little inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last
words to Emma were,

"Well;--if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will."

She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond
was to take him back before the following evening.



CHAPTER VII


They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in
favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating
safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with
the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.
Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body
had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount
of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits,
a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much
into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of
Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.
And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed
at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and
Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable
as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the
hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties,
too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any
cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.

At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing--looked
without seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing
what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.
To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared
for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay
and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission
to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating
period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation,
meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must
have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very
well describe. "Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together
excessively." They were laying themselves open to that very phrase--and
to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to
Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any
real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had
expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked
him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,
admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning
back her heart. She still intended him for her friend.

"How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come
to-day!--If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all
the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again."

"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you
were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you
deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come."

"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me."

"It is hotter to-day."

"Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day."

"You are comfortable because you are under command."

"Your command?--Yes."

"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
management; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command
rather than mine."

"It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a
motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always
with me. You are always with me."

"Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not
begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before."

"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you
first in February."

"Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)--nobody
speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking
nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people."

"I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively
impudence. "I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill
hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side,
and Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February." And then
whispering--"Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do
to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies
and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,
presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking
of?"

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great
deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr.
Knightley's answer was the most distinct.

"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
thinking of?"

"Oh! no, no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--"Upon no
account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt
of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking
of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing
at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of
knowing."

"It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which _I_
should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,
perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party--_I_ never was in any
circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--"

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,

"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard
of--but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every
body knows what is due to _you_."

"It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most of them
affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen--I
am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here
are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one
thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two
things moderately clever--or three things very dull indeed, and she
engages to laugh heartily at them all."

"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I
shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,
shan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every
body's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?"

Emma could not resist.

"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be
limited as to number--only three at once."

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

"Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."

"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my
best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?"

"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--"but we shall be
indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way."

"No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.
Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me
hear it."

"I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much
a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are
there, that express perfection?"

"What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know."

"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"

Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and
enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch
the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.
Knightley gravely said,

"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon."

"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "_I_
really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had
an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all
pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--You know
who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very
well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of
place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer.
Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty
things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a
great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to
judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please,
Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing
clever to say--not one of us.

"Yes, yes, pray pass _me_," added her husband, with a sort of sneering
consciousness; "_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for
nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?"

"With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm."

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
"Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
hearing:--"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as they
did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only knew
each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--for as to
any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public
place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is
only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as
they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it
is all guess and luck--and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man
has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest
of his life!"

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own
confederates, spoke now.

"Such things do occur, undoubtedly."--She was stopped by a cough. Frank
Churchill turned towards her to listen.

"You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.

"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances
do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be
very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--but there is
generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to
mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness
must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate
acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever."

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
afterwards said, in a lively tone,

"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I
marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to
Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body
fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at
his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate
her."

"And make her like myself."

"By all means, if you can."

"Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife."

"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.
I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come
to you for my wife. Remember."

Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every
favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say?
Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.

"Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?"

"If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was
ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall
soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else. That's one
of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--Well, I
declare--"

They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston,
his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits
now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of
flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about
with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended
to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The
appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the
carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and
preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have _her_
carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive
home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of
pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people,
she hoped never to be betrayed into again.

While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He
looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,

"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it.
I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be
so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to
a woman of her character, age, and situation?--Emma, I had not thought
it possible."

Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.
It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me."

"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of
it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what
candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for
ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be
so irksome."

"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world:
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
unfortunately blended in her."

"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over
the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation--but, Emma,
consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk
from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must
probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was
badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had
seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you
now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her,
humble her--and before her niece, too--and before others, many of whom
(certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment
of her.--This is not pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from
pleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths while I can;
satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you
can do now."

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had
misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her
tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,
mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on
entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then reproaching
herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in
apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a
difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses
were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with
what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and
every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been
expressed--almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so
agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was
most forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no
denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal,
so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill
opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without
saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel
it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary
to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,
fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running
down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to
check them, extraordinary as they were.



CHAPTER VIII


The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the
evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could
not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,
might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was
a morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational
satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than
any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her father,
was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she
was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and
feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and
confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any
severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart.
She hoped no one could have said to her, "How could you be so unfeeling
to your father?--I must, I will tell you truths while I can." Miss
Bates should never again--no, never! If attention, in future, could do
away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss,
her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact;
scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth of true
contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should
be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.

She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she
might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in
while she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be
ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.

"The ladies were all at home." She had never rejoiced at the sound
before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,
with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of
deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.

There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the
maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a
moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both
escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of,
looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard
Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon
the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough."

Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not
quite understand what was going on.

"I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know; they
_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,
Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am
very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where you like? I
am sure she will be here presently."

Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates
keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy and
obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same
cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner. A very
friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a
return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.

"Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--and
are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in
me--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us
to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful
headache just now, writing all the morning:--such long letters, you
know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. 'My dear,' said
I, 'you will blind yourself'--for tears were in her eyes perpetually.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though
she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no
young woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us
ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again
dispersing her tears)--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a
headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel
any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To
look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have
secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she is
not able--she is gone into her own room--I want her to lie down upon the
bed. 'My dear,' said I, 'I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:'
but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that
she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will
be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your
kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite
ashamed--but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that
we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not
know any body was coming. 'It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I, 'depend upon
it. Nobody else would come so early.' 'Well,' said she, 'it must be
borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty
came in, and said it was you. 'Oh!' said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am
sure you will like to see her.'--'I can see nobody,' said she; and
up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you
waiting--and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. 'If you must go, my
dear,' said I, 'you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the
bed.'"

Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing
kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted
as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but
pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of
the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on
seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear
to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and
solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected
from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for
Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe
trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel
Campbell's return."

"So very kind!" replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind."

There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful
gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of--

"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?"

"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have the charge
of her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any
situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,
Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is
intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four
miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove."

"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--"

"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She
would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, 'No;' for when Jane
first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning
we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided
against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly
as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel
Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any
engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her
mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw
farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in
such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she
positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as
Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it
was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not
the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that
upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she
had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it
till it was all settled."

"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?"

"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon
the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. 'You _must_
_all_ spend your evening with us,' said she--'I positively must have you
_all_ come.'"

"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?"

"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him
off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and
a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss
Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed
rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is
fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have
enjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,
and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it."

"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?"

"I dare say she had."

"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
possible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family."

"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing
in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and
Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal
and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most
delightful woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as
to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there
are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with
such regard and kindness!--It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of
pleasure.--And her salary!--I really cannot venture to name her salary
to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would
hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane."

"Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned."

"You are so noble in your ideas!"

"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?"

"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it. Within a
fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not
know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and
say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more."

"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their
return?"

"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation
as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished
when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when
Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was
before tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea, because we were
just going to cards--and yet it was before tea, because I remember
thinking--Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened
before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before
tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I
have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven
years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the
rheumatic gout in his joints--I must go and see him to-day; and so will
Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to
talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do
himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing
of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help;
and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been
telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to
Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened
before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton."

Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she
could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's
going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.

What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill--which messenger,
however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable
account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming
back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having
resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse
seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the
Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy
going a good pace, and driving very steady.

There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it
caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already
engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in
the world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the
other nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny,
and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss
Bates's saying,

"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become
of that?--Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.--'You
must go,' said she. 'You and I must part. You will have no business
here.--Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel
Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for
me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'--And to this day, I do
believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's."

Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of
all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,
that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough;
and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of
the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.



CHAPTER IX


Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;
but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.
Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting
with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner
decidedly graver than usual, said,

"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend
a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,
besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?"

"Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?"

"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time."

Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,
however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends
again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--her father
began his inquiries.

"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you find my
worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must have been very
much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs.
and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so
attentive to them!"

Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a
smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.
Knightley.--It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in
her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that
had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.--
He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--and in
another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common
friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--whether she had not
herself made the first motion, she could not say--she might, perhaps,
have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly
was on the point of carrying it to his lips--when, from some fancy or
other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why
he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not
perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not
stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was
that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it
happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--It was with him,
of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--She could not but recall the
attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.--He left
them immediately afterwards--gone in a moment. He always moved with the
alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but
now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.

Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she
had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure
to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--Neither
would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she
knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have happened
at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it, would have been
pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however; she could not
be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished
gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered
his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she
found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!

In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness
of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on
horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her
news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified;
it supplied a very useful check,--interested, without disturbing him. He
had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and
could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had
been an unexpected blow.

"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably
settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say
her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry
situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to
be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.
You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be
induced to go away after it has been her home so long."

The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else
into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the
death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason
to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty
hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any
thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short
struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.

It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of
gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the
surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where
she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops
to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be
disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.
Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was
now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully
justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The
event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of
imaginary complaints.

"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try the
temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults, what
would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be
dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--Even Mr.
Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor woman,
who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as
handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her
broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it
would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also
a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill,
the grief of her husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and
compassion--and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might
be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment
all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have
nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared
by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his
nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form
the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel
no certainty of its being already formed.

Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.
What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma
was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character,
and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.
They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual
forbearance.

Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all
that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill
was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the
departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very
old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a
visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for
Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible
on Emma's side.

It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose
prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements
now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely
a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she
had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she
would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted
to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify
respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day
at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused,
and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;"
and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared
that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against
her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe
headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the
possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed.
Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--appetite quite
gone--and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing
touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension
of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had
undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself,
though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her
present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous
disorder:--confined always to one room;--he could have wished it
otherwise--and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must
acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that
description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,
in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived
more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;
grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some
way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour or two--from
her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational
conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the
following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language
she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any
hour that Jane would name--mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided
opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only
in this short note:

"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
exercise."

Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best
counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the
answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's,
in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--but it would not
do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing
with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
service--and every thing that message could do was tried--but all in
vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was
quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her
worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;
but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear
that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.
"Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any
body--any body at all--Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and
Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but,
except them, Jane would really see nobody."

Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
she feel any right of preference herself--she submitted, therefore, and
only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet,
which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates
was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any
thing:--Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing
they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was
distasteful.

Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an
examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half
an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss
Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent
back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on
her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing."

When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering
about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of
the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,
she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--that Jane was
resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.
Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable
from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little
credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but
she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of
being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy
to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen
into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to
reprove.



CHAPTER X


One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes,
and wanted particularly to speak with her."--He met her at the
parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of
his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,

"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be
possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you."

"Is she unwell?"

"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the
carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you
know--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?"

"Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what
you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--Is she really not
ill?"

"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it all in
time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!"

To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something
really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was
well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father,
that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of
the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.

"Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now
Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened."

"No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to
leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not
be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon."

"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--"Good
God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick
Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it
is."

"No, indeed you are mistaken."--

"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest
friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you
by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment."

"Upon my word, Emma."--

"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that
it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be
_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?"

"Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in
the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
Knightley."

Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.

"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you.
I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern
you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my
dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't
say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much
worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls."

Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She
asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and
that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money
concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the
circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond
had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural
children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very
undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more
than an animating curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they
proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,
than with any other view.

"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I
assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this
time."

"Has your son been with you, then?"

"Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind."

For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded
and demure,

"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear," said
he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you
will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in
delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me."--And Emma distinctly
heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--"I have
been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."

Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,
that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she
eagerly said,

"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been
walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense.
Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your
distress, whatever it may be."

"Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to
hear?"

"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess."

"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;"
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has
been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is
impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,--to announce an attachment--"

She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of
Harriet.

"More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an
engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will
any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!"

Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,

"Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?"

"You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes,
and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover--
"You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn
engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and
kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but
themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so
wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him."

Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two
ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and
poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
confirmation, repeated confirmation.

"Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at
all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either
of them came to Highbury?"

"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very
much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we
cannot excuse."

Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend _not_ to
understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured
that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are
apprehensive of."

Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as
steady as her words.

"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my
present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you,
that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I
did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay,
was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.
Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,
for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may
believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth."

Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find
utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good
than any thing else in the world could do.

"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On
this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you
might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.--
Imagine what we have been feeling on your account."

"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful
wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;
and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he
to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners
so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as
he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering
attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to
another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could
he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong,
very wrong indeed."

"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--"

"And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,
before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity,
which I can neither comprehend nor respect."

"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a
quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow
the full use even of the time he could stay--but that there had been
misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed,
seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very
possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct."

"Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure. Much, much
beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him
in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of
trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of
his life."

"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong
in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having
many, very many, good qualities; and--"

"Good God!" cried Emma, not attending to her.--"Mrs. Smallridge, too!
Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by
such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her
even to think of such a measure!"

"He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit
him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at
least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--Till yesterday, I
know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do
not know how, but by some letter or message--and it was the discovery of
what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him
to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on
his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of
concealment that had been carrying on so long."

Emma began to listen better.

"I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston. "He told me at
parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which
seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let
us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It
may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to
be understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to
condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am
satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious
for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must
both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and
concealment."

"_His_ sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done him
much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?"

"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely a
difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!
While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a
hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in
the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite
to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue
influence does not survive the grave!--He gave his consent with very
little persuasion."

"Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."

"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and
then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,
to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,
he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--He was very much
agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite
a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In
addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so
very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--and there was
every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal."

"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such
perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of
the engagement?"

Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.

"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in
the world but their two selves."

"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the
idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a
very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of
hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--To come among us with
professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret
to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,
completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth
and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been
carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and
words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the
consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not
perfectly agreeable!"

"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am very sure
that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not
have heard."

"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you
imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady."

"True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss
Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and
as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe."

At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,
evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him
in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me
intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease,
and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of
it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It
is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that,
why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for
Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such
steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her
credit for--and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of
this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may
be said in her situation for even that error!"

"Much, indeed!" cried Emma feelingly. "If a woman can ever be
excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane
Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that 'the world is not their's,
nor the world's law.'"

She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,
exclaiming,

"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a
device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of
guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half
your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of
condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.--I congratulate
you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the
most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter."

A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as
right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was
immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook
her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in
a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think
the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what
could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they
had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again
with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly
reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank
could possibly have done.



CHAPTER XI


"Harriet, poor Harriet!"--Those were the words; in them lay the
tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted
the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very
ill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much _his_
behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the
scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the
deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the
dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken
prophetically, when he once said, "Emma, you have been no friend
to Harriet Smith."--She was afraid she had done her nothing but
disservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this
instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of
the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise
never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged
her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever
given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty
of having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have
prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence
would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought
to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been risking her friend's
happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have directed
her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him,
and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring
for her.--"But, with common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had
little to do."

She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry
with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--As for Jane
Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present
solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need
no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health
having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.--Her
days of insignificance and evil were over.--She would soon be well, and
happy, and prosperous.--Emma could now imagine why her own attentions
had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No
doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival;
and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be
repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,
and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She
understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from
the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that
Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her
desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little
sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful
that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and
judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing
reserve and self-command, it would.--She must communicate the painful
truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had
been among Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole
affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of
it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost;
and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--Emma had
promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.

In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost
ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate
office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by
herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her,
she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat quick
on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs.
Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the event of
the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--But of that, unfortunately,
there could be no chance.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--"is
not this the oddest news that ever was?"

"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or
voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.

"About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you
need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me
himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;
and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you,
but he said you knew it."

"What did Mr. Weston tell you?"--said Emma, still perplexed.

"Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill
are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one
another this long while. How very odd!"

It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd,
that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared
absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or
disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at
her, quite unable to speak.

"Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You,
perhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every
body's heart; but nobody else--"

"Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not
openly--encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never
had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly."

"Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you caution
me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill."

"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied
Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and
not very distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you
did care about him?"

"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?"
turning away distressed.

"Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--"What do you mean?--Good
Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--"

She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she sat down,
waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.

Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from
her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was
in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.

"I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have
misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--but considering
how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have
thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person.
Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in
the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of
Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should
have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that
you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I
should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost,
to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more
wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater
disparity (those were your very words);--I should not have dared to
give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But if _you_, who
had been always acquainted with him--"

"Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--"Let us understand
each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you
speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"

"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--and so
I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as
possible."

"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you then
said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost
assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service
Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the
gipsies, was spoken of."

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!"

"My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on
the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment;
that considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely
natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to
your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had
been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The impression of it is
strong on my memory."

"Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I
was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the
gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some
elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--of Mr.
Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not
stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That
was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that
was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every
other being upon earth."

"Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--most
deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?"

"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At
least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the
other had been the person; and now--it _is_ possible--"

She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.

"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel a
great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must
think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But
I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--strange as it may
appear--. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful
things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place than
between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such
a thing even as this, may have occurred before--and if I should be so
fortunate, beyond expression, as to--if Mr. Knightley should really--if
_he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will
not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But
you are too good for that, I am sure."

Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at
her in consternation, and hastily said,

"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"

"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--"I must say that I
have."

Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,
in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient
for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers,
once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--she
admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse
that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank
Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having
some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an
arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!

Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same
few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed
her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How
inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been
her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her
with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the
world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all
these demerits--some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense
of justice by Harriet--(there would be no need of _compassion_ to the
girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required
that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the
resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even apparent
kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the utmost
extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet had done
nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily
formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose
counsels had never led her right.--Rousing from reflection, therefore,
and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more
inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which
had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was
quite sunk and lost.--Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and
themselves.

Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad
to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and
such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give
the history of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's
tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than
Harriet's, but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her
mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such
a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing
emotions, must create.--She listened with much inward suffering, but
with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well
arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it
contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of
the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--especially with the
corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of
Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet.

Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since
those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,
found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at
least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to think of him,
Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more than he
had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner
towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been
more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking together,
he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very
delightfully!--He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it
to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to
almost the same extent.--Harriet repeated expressions of approbation
and praise from him--and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement
with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for
being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,
feelings.--She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he
had dwelt on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's
memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from
him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment
implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected,
by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation,
and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed
undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to
be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without
some degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking
with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they
had been walking some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as
she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself--and at first,
he had talked to her in a more particular way than he had ever done
before, in a very particular way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall
it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her, whether her
affections were engaged.--But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared
likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about
farming:--The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half
an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of
his being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that
he could not stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their
conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very much against
his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more (as
Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The superior degree of
confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her
severe pain.

On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a
little reflection, venture the following question. "Might he not?--Is
not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of
your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--he might have
Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with
spirit.

"Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I
know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it."

When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss
Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.

"I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she, "but
for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour
be the rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may
deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so
very wonderful."

The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings,
made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say
on reply,

"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last
man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his
feeling for her more than he really does."

Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so
satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which
at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her
father's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too
much agitated to encounter him. "She could not compose herself--
Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;"--with most ready
encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another
door--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of
Emma's feelings: "Oh God! that I had never seen her!"

The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her
thoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had
rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a
fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to
her.--How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had
been thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the
blindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about,
she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every
posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had
been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had
been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she
was wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of
wretchedness.

To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first
endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father's
claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.

How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling
declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?--
When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back;
she compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in her
estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--and as
they must at any time have been compared by her, had it--oh! had it, by
any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.--She
saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.
Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not
been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,
in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a
delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and, in short, that she had
never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!

This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was
the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which
she reached; and without being long in reaching it.--She was most
sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed
to her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.--Every other part of her mind
was disgusting.

With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every
body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every
body's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and
she had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief. She had
brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
Knightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on
her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his
attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of
Harriet's;--and even were this not the case, he would never have known
Harriet at all but for her folly.

Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every
wonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax
became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no
surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or
thought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her
side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it
must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers,
the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and
disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.--Could
it be?--No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from
impossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities
to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps
too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?--Was
it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent,
incongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct
the human fate?

Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she
ought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a
folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the
unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable
in the line of life to which she ought to belong--all would have been
safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.

How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to
Mr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such
a man till actually assured of it!--But Harriet was less humble, had
fewer scruples than formerly.--Her inferiority, whether of mind or
situation, seemed little felt.--She had seemed more sensible of Mr.
Elton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
Knightley's.--Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at
pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but
herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,
and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?--If
Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.



CHAPTER XII


Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known
how much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,
first in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so, and feeling
it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had
been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no
female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims
could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far
he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for
many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent
or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,
insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would
not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still,
from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he
had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to
improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature
had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear
to him; might she not say, very dear?--When the suggestions of hope,
however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not
presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy
of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley.
_She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of
blindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very recent
proof of its impartiality.--How shocked had he been by her behaviour to
Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her
on the subject!--Not too strongly for the offence--but far, far too
strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright justice and
clear-sighted goodwill.--She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name
of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself which was
now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at
times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be
overrating his regard for _her_.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the
consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life.
Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she
believed she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the
same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to
all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious
intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would be
fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be
incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt
for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not
marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.

It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she
hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least
be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should see them
henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had
hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how
to admit that she could be blinded here.--He was expected back every
day. The power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it
appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she
resolved against seeing Harriet.--It would do neither of them good,
it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.--She was
resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had
no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to
irritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg
that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to
be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_
topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed
to pass before they met again, except in the company of others--she
objected only to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they
had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and
approved, and was grateful.

This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's
thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,
sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had
been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her
way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to
relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.

Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his
share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then
induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with
much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter
of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of
awkward feelings, could have afforded.

A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her
friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal
of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all
at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and
to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr.
Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as,
considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid
without leading to reports:--but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he
was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her
family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it;
or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for "such things,"
he observed, "always got about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston
had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very
great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had
hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn
how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a
gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly
respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation;
thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of
themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss
Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to
invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but,
on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive,
Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her
embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.
Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception,
and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling
towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but
when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the
present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was
convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her
companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been,
and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.

"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so
many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one
of her expressions. 'I will not say, that since I entered into the
engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have
never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--and the quivering lip,
Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart."

"Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
consented to a private engagement?"

"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed
to blame herself. 'The consequence,' said she, 'has been a state of
perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment
that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no
expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all
my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken,
and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me
ought not to be.' 'Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, 'that I was
taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the
care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own;
and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances
may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel
Campbell.'"

"Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I
suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be
led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her
judgment."

"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him."

"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have
contributed to make her unhappy."

"On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she
probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the
misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural
consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was
that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done
amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious
and irritable to a degree that must have been--that had been--hard for
him to bear. 'I did not make the allowances,' said she, 'which I ought
to have done, for his temper and spirits--his delightful spirits, and
that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other
circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to
me, as they were at first.' She then began to speak of you, and of the
great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush
which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had
an opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every
wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had
never received any proper acknowledgment from herself."

"If I did not know her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which,
in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she
must be, I could not bear these thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there
were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss
Fairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this
is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting
particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is
very good--I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune
should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers."

Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought
well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him
very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a
great deal of reason, and at least equal affection--but she had too much
to urge for Emma's attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or
to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended
with, "We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know,
but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to pause before she
answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at
all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.

"Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.

"Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me
intelligence of the letter as soon as possible."

Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for
unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her
sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted
not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the
envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.
Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying that attention
to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her
better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured
to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all
probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her
now.--Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as
an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other--what
was she?--Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;
that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax's confidence on this
important matter--which was most probable--still, in knowing her as
she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the
abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she
had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so
unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a
subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the
levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil
surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded
that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a
perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without
her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on
Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no
more.

The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and
nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was
despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights
the longer visible.

The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably
comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by
exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded
her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's
wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea,
and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of
Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly
be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the
approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,
no pleasures had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared
would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,
was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--that
might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that
might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be
comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the
spirits only of ruined happiness.

The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than
herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it.
They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband
also.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss
Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to
Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe.
All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the
loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or
of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer
coming there for his evening comfort!--No longer walking in at all
hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's!--How was
it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet's sake;
if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's society
all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first,
the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best
blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but
the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her
own work?

When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from
a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a
few seconds--and the only source whence any thing like consolation
or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might
be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it
would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and
leave her less to regret when it were gone.



CHAPTER XIII


The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and
the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at
Hartfield--but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a
softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was
summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma
resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite
sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after
a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they
might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after
dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time
in hurrying into the shrubbery.--There, with spirits freshened, and
thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr.
Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.--It
was the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had
been thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles
distant.--There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She
must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The
"How d'ye do's" were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after
their mutual friends; they were all well.--When had he left them?--Only
that morning. He must have had a wet ride.--Yes.--He meant to walk with
her, she found. "He had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was
not wanted there, preferred being out of doors."--She thought he neither
looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it,
suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his
plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had
been received.

They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking
at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to
give. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to
speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for
encouragement to begin.--She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the
way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could
not bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She
considered--resolved--and, trying to smile, began--

"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather
surprize you."

"Have I?" said he quietly, and looking at her; "of what nature?"

"Oh! the best nature in the world--a wedding."

After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he
replied,

"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that
already."

"How is it possible?" cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards
him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called
at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.

"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and
at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."

Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
composure,

"_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have
had your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
me a caution.--I wish I had attended to it--but--(with a sinking voice
and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."

For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having
excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within
his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone
of great sensibility, speaking low,

"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent
sense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow
yourself--." Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more
broken and subdued accent, "The feelings of the warmest
friendship--Indignation--Abominable scoundrel!"--And in a louder,
steadier tone, he concluded with, "He will soon be gone. They will soon
be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate."

Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter
of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,

"You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.--
I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was
going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed
of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may
well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason
to regret that I was not in the secret earlier."

"Emma!" cried he, looking eagerly at her, "are you, indeed?"--but
checking himself--"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I am pleased
that you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed! and
it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment
of more than your reason.--Fortunate that your affections were not
farther entangled!--I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure
myself as to the degree of what you felt--I could only be certain that
there was a preference--and a preference which I never believed him to
deserve.--He is a disgrace to the name of man.--And is he to be rewarded
with that sweet young woman?--Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable
creature."

"Mr. Knightley," said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused--"I
am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your
error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I
have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been
at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural
for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.--But I never
have."

He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would
not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his
clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in
his opinion. She went on, however.

"I have very little to say for my own conduct.--I was tempted by his
attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.--An old story,
probably--a common case--and no more than has happened to hundreds of my
sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up
as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.
He was the son of Mr. Weston--he was continually here--I always found
him very pleasant--and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the
causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last--my vanity
was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however--for some
time, indeed--I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.--I thought
them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.
He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been
attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He
never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real
situation with another.--It was his object to blind all about him; and
no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself--except
that I was _not_ blinded--that it was my good fortune--that, in short, I
was somehow or other safe from him."

She had hoped for an answer here--for a few words to say that her
conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she
could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone,
he said,

"I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.--I can suppose,
however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has
been but trifling.--And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he
may yet turn out well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have no
motive for wishing him ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be
involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him
well."

"I have no doubt of their being happy together," said Emma; "I believe
them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached."

"He is a most fortunate man!" returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. "So
early in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when, if a man chuses a
wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such
a prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation,
has before him!--Assured of the love of such a woman--the disinterested
love, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness;
every thing in his favour,--equality of situation--I mean, as far as
regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important;
equality in every point but one--and that one, since the purity of her
heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it
will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.--A man would always
wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from;
and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must,
I think, be the happiest of mortals.--Frank Churchill is, indeed, the
favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.--He meets
with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even
weary her by negligent treatment--and had he and all his family sought
round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found
her superior.--His aunt is in the way.--His aunt dies.--He has only to
speak.--His friends are eager to promote his happiness.--He had used
every body ill--and they are all delighted to forgive him.--He is a
fortunate man indeed!"

"You speak as if you envied him."

"And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy."

Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence
of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if
possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally
different--the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for
breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,

"You will not ask me what is the point of envy.--You are determined, I
see, to have no curiosity.--You are wise--but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma,
I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the
next moment."

"Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a
little time, consider, do not commit yourself."

"Thank you," said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not
another syllable followed.

Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in
her--perhaps to consult her;--cost her what it would, she would listen.
She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give
just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence,
relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more
intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.--They had
reached the house.

"You are going in, I suppose?" said he.

"No,"--replied Emma--quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which
he still spoke--"I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not
gone." And, after proceeding a few steps, she added--"I stopped you
ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you
pain.--But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or
to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation--as
a friend, indeed, you may command me.--I will hear whatever you like. I
will tell you exactly what I think."

"As a friend!"--repeated Mr. Knightley.--"Emma, that I fear is a
word--No, I have no wish--Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?--I
have gone too far already for concealment.--Emma, I accept your
offer--Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to
you as a friend.--Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression
of his eyes overpowered her.

"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever
the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved
Emma--tell me at once. Say 'No,' if it is to be said."--She could
really say nothing.--"You are silent," he cried, with great animation;
"absolutely silent! at present I ask no more."

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The
dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most
prominent feeling.

"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a tone of
such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably
convincing.--"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it
more. But you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I
have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other
woman in England would have borne it.--Bear with the truths I would
tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The
manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have
been a very indifferent lover.--But you understand me.--Yes, you see,
you understand my feelings--and will return them if you can. At present,
I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful
velocity of thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word--to
catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's
hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a
delusion as any of her own--that Harriet was nothing; that she was every
thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet
had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her
agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all
received as discouragement from herself.--And not only was there time
for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant happiness; there
was time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and
to resolve that it need not, and should not.--It was all the service
she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of
sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his
affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the
two--or even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at
once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could not
marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and
with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that
could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her
friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her
judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever
been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal
and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.--She spoke
then, on being so entreated.--What did she say?--Just what she ought,
of course. A lady always does.--She said enough to shew there need not
be despair--and to invite him to say more himself. He _had_ despaired at
one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence,
as for the time crushed every hope;--she had begun by refusing to hear
him.--The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;--her proposal of
taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had
just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!--She felt its
inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it,
and seek no farther explanation.

Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure;
seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a
little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is
mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.--Mr.
Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she
possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.

He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had
followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,
in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill's engagement, with no
selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an
opening, to soothe or to counsel her.--The rest had been the work of
the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The
delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank Churchill,
of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth
to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;--but
it had been no present hope--he had only, in the momentary conquest of
eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his
attempt to attach her.--The superior hopes which gradually opened were
so much the more enchanting.--The affection, which he had been asking
to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!--Within half
an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to
something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.

_Her_ change was equal.--This one half-hour had given to each the same
precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same
degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.--On his side, there had been
a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,
of Frank Churchill.--He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank
Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably
enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill
that had taken him from the country.--The Box Hill party had decided
him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again
such permitted, encouraged attentions.--He had gone to learn to be
indifferent.--But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much
domestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form
in it; Isabella was too much like Emma--differing only in those striking
inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before
him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.--He had
stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day--till this very morning's
post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.--Then, with the gladness
which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never
believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much
fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no
longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly
after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures,
faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.

He had found her agitated and low.--Frank Churchill was a villain.--
He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill's
character was not desperate.--She was his own Emma, by hand and word,
when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank
Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.



CHAPTER XIV


What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from
what she had brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for
a little respite of suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of
happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be
greater when the flutter should have passed away.

They sat down to tea--the same party round the same table--how often
it had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on the same
shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the
western sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing
like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her
usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive
daughter.

Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the
breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously
hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.--Could he have seen the
heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the
most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the slightest
perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either,
he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news he had
received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much self-contentment,
totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in return.

As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever continued;
but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and
subdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax
for such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points
to consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some
alloy. Her father--and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling
the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort
of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father,
it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley
would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most
solemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She even wept over
the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an
engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of
drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.--How
to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;--how to spare
her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;
how to appear least her enemy?--On these subjects, her perplexity
and distress were very great--and her mind had to pass again and
again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever
surrounded it.--She could only resolve at last, that she would still
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by
letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed
just now for a time from Highbury, and--indulging in one scheme
more--nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation
for her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;
and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.--She did
not think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited by novelty
and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.--At any rate,
it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom
every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the
evil day, when they must all be together again.

She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which
left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking
up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half
an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,
literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a
proper share of the happiness of the evening before.

He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the
slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was
brought her from Randalls--a very thick letter;--she guessed what it
must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.--She was now
in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she
wanted only to have her thoughts to herself--and as for understanding
any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.--It must be
waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;--a
note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to
Mrs. Weston.

"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely
a doubt of its happy effect.--I think we shall never materially disagree
about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.--We
are quite well.--This letter has been the cure of all the little
nervousness I have been feeling lately.--I did not quite like your looks
on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never
own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east
wind.--I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday
afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last
night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.

                              "Yours ever,
                                                       "A. W."

                       [To Mrs. Weston.]


                                                       WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,

"If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be
expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and
indulgence.--You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of
even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.--But
I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage
rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be
humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for
pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,
and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.--You
must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I
first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which
was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place
myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question.
I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it a right,
I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and
casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my
difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to
require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we
parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the
creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.--Had she refused, I
should have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your
hope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?--To any thing, every
thing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,
perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of
good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her
promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation,
I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and
the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no
inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See
me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to
Randalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have
been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till
Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person slighted, you
will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by
reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long
I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very
happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to
reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal,
the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which
excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With
the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss
Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest
humiliation.--A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his
opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour
to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.--In order to
assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than
an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately
thrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but
I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been
convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any
selfish views to go on.--Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is,
she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and
that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me,
was as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with
an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me.
We seemed to understand each other. From our relative situation, those
attentions were her due, and were felt to be so.--Whether Miss Woodhouse
began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight,
I cannot say;--when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was
within a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not
without suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me,
at least in some degree.--She may not have surmised the whole, but her
quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find,
whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it
did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it.
I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude
for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.--I hope this history of my conduct
towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation
of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against
Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and
procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes
of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly
affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as
myself.--Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,
you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to
get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.
If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.--Of
the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that
its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F--, who would never
have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.--The
delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam,
is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly
hope, know her thoroughly yourself.--No description can describe her.
She must tell you herself what she is--yet not by word, for never
was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own
merit.--Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw,
I have heard from her.--She gives a good account of her own health; but
as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion
of her looks. I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread
of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without
delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few
minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and
I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or
misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her
excellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy:
but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little
I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her
again!--But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me
to encroach.--I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard
all that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail
yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness
with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event
of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the
happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures,
but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to
lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she
would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and
refinement.--But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered
into with that woman--Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to leave off
abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.--I have been walking over
the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the rest of
my letter what it ought to be.--It is, in fact, a most mortifying
retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that
my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly
blameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.--My
plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.--She was
displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand
occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even
cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and
subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have
escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.--We quarrelled.--
Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell?--_There_ every little
dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late;
I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she
would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then
thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very
natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the
world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable
particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a
proposal which might have made every previous caution useless?--Had we
been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must
have been suspected.--I was mad enough, however, to resent.--I doubted
her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when,
provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect
of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been
impossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in
a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.--In short, my dear
madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and
I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with
you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with
her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to
be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her
coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first
advances.--I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of
the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly
suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon
her appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she
found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that
officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the
bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel
with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards
myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it
which that woman has known.--'Jane,' indeed!--You will observe that I
have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you.
Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between
the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the
insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon
have done.--She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me
entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet
again.--_She_ _felt_ _the_ _engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_
_repentance_ _and_ _misery_ _to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.--This
letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I
answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the
multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of
being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in
my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but
a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was
rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I
made excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?--too cheerful
in my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two
days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all
returned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her
extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and
adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued,
and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate
arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe
conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly
command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would
forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction
to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the
name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had
been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character
which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to
any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its
anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten
me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my
own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.--What was to be
done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I
could not hope to be listened to again.--I spoke; circumstances were
in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was,
earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying;
and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I
might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I
felt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity
me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my
suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached
Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her
wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my
knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance
of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not
disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very
reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is
done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's
uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will
release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand
thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for
the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in
a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss
W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one
respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe
myself,

                    Your obliged and affectionate Son,

                                          F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.



CHAPTER XV


This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in
spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the
justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name,
it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,
and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject
could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard
for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of
love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone
through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had
been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had
suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and
so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that
there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must
have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.

She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,
she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to
be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so
much to blame in his conduct.

"I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I
will take it home with me at night."

But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she
must return it by him.

"I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a
matter of justice, it shall be done."

He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered
the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few
months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference."

He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a
smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his
way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be
severe."

"It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my
opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.
It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--"

"Not at all. I should wish it."

Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.

"He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong,
and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the
engagement.--'His father's disposition:'--he is unjust, however, to his
father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright
and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort
before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss
Fairfax was here."

"And I have not forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might
have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you
were perfectly right."

"I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had
_you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him."

When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it
aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the
head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as
the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady
reflection, thus--

"Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous
game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of
his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and
regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have
fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue,
that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert
the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more
and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each
other?"

Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account,
which she could not give any sincere explanation of.

"You had better go on," said she.

He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That
was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether
the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A
boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a
woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense
with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's
coming if she could."

After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's
confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for
more than a word in passing.

"I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark. "You did behave
very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through
what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his
persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right,
he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her
to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and
uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from
suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend
with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have
respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were
all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she
had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she
should have been in such a state of punishment."

Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew
uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was
deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,
however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear
of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.

"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the
Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.--What!
actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to
be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a
view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most
extraordinary--"

"Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers."

"I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter.
"'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?"

"She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a
dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the
bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?"

"Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of
Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter
the man writes!"

"I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him."

"Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in
finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of
her. 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long continue to
feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal
thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--'Happier than I
deserve.' Come, he knows himself there. 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the
child of good fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?--
And a fine ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!
That was your name for him, was it?"

"You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still
you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I
hope it does him some service with you."

"Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion
in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he
is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it
may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very
ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers the
steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me talk
to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present
so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.
Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work
on one subject."

The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike
English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love
with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the
happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word.
"While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible
for her. She could never quit him." Part only of this answer, however,
was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr.
Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any
other change, he could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most
deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to
remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but
his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself
long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation
would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which
must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt
that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the
sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any
respect objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield;
that so long as her father's happiness--in other words, his life--required
Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.

Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing
thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such
an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all
the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must
be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that
in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there
would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it,
and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no
reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had
given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had
been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his
thoughts to himself.

"Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure
William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you
ask mine."

She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,
moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good
scheme.

It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in
which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never
struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must
of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only
gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in
detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley's
marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.

This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at
Hartfield--the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual
good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the
periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!--Such a partner in
all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of
melancholy!

She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing
of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,
who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family
party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere
charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in
every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction
from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a
dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a
peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of
unmerited punishment.

In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,
supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.
Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;--not
like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly
considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped
than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she
could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.



CHAPTER XVI


It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as
herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by
letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!

Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without
reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there
was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style,
which increased the desirableness of their being separate.--It might be
only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have
been quite without resentment under such a stroke.

She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was
fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting
to invention.--There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and
had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to
her--and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was
quite eager to have Harriet under her care.--When it was thus settled
on her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her
very persuadable.--Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a
fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse's carriage.--It was
all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick
Square.

Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley's visits; now she could
talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense
of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her
when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might
at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the feelings
which she had led astray herself.

The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps
an unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not think
of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must
be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.

She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place
in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication before
her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make--the confession of
her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it
at present.--She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston
were safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this
period among those she loved--and the evil should not act on herself
by anticipation before the appointed time.--A fortnight, at least, of
leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating,
delight, should be hers.

She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an
hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.--She ought
to go--and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present
situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a
_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect
would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any
thing Jane might communicate.

She went--she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not
been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had
been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the
worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.--The fear of being still
unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home, to
wait in the passage, and send up her name.--She heard Patty announcing
it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so
happily intelligible.--No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of,
"Beg her to walk up;"--and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs
by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her
were felt sufficient.--Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely,
so engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was
every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.--
She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very
feeling tone,

"This is most kind, indeed!--Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me
to express--I hope you will believe--Excuse me for being so entirely
without words."

Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the
sound of Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked
her, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her
congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.

Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which
accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.
Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every
body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the
rencontre would do them no harm.

She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and
understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in
Miss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was
still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in
the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs.
Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady's replies, she saw
her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she
had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into
the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,

"We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want
opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I
only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is
not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet
creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.--But not a word
more. Let us be discreet--quite on our good behaviour.--Hush!--You
remember those lines--I forget the poem at this moment:

        "For when a lady's in the case,
        "You know all other things give place."

Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read----mum! a word to
the wise.--I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I? But I want to set
your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.--_My_ representation, you see, has
quite appeased her."

And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's
knitting, she added, in a half whisper,

"I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.--Oh! no; cautious as a
minister of state. I managed it extremely well."

Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every
possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of
the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,

"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is
charmingly recovered?--Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest
credit?--(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my
word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!--Oh! if you had
seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!"--And when Mrs. Bates
was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, "We do not say a word
of any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young
physician from Windsor.--Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit."

"I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse," she
shortly afterwards began, "since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant
party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not
seem--that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.--So
it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think
it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our
collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the
fine weather lasts?--It must be the same party, you know, quite the
same party, not _one_ exception."

Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being
diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,
she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say
every thing.

"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.--It is impossible
to say--Yes, indeed, I quite understand--dearest Jane's prospects--that
is, I do not mean.--But she is charmingly recovered.--How is Mr.
Woodhouse?--I am so glad.--Quite out of my power.--Such a happy little
circle as you find us here.--Yes, indeed.--Charming young man!--that
is--so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!--such attention to
Jane!"--And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight
towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a
little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter,
which was now graciously overcome.--After a few whispers, indeed, which
placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,

"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that
anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth
is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me
here, and pay his respects to you."

"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?--That will
be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and
Mr. Elton's time is so engaged."

"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is engaged from morning to
night.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on some pretence or
other.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always
wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without
him.--'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, 'rather you than I.--I do
not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had
half so many applicants.'--Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect
them both to an unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not played a bar
this fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on
purpose to wait on you all." And putting up her hand to screen her
words from Emma--"A congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh! yes, quite
indispensable."

Miss Bates looked about her, so happily--!

"He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself
from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep
consultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand."

Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr. Elton
gone on foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk."

"Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and
Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who
lead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way."

"Have not you mistaken the day?" said Emma. "I am almost certain that
the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr. Knightley was at
Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday."

"Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which
denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.--"I do
believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever
was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove."

"Your parish there was small," said Jane.

"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject
talked of."

"But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard
you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the
only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children."

"Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you
have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we
could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce
perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_
people may not think _you_ perfection already.--But hush!--not a word,
if you please."

It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,
not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.
The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very
evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.

Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her
sparkling vivacity.

"Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an
encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!--But
you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should
not stir till my lord and master appeared.--Here have I been sitting
this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal
obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?"

Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent
object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the
walk he had had for nothing.

"When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley could not be found. Very
odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and the
message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one."

"Donwell!" cried his wife.--"My dear Mr. E., you have not been to
Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."

"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley
to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!--I went
over the fields too--(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made
it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you
I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The
housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.--Very
extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps
to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.--Miss
Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can you explain it?"

Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,
indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.

"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife
ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of
all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to
be forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am
sure he must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;--and his
servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely
to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,
extremely awkward and remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a
creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And
as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.--She promised
Wright a receipt, and never sent it."

"I met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house,
and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not
believe him.--William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what
was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the
speech of him. I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really
is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it
becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should
have had this hot walk to no purpose."

Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In
all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.
Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards
Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.

She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to
attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her
an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,

"It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you
not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to
introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might
have been strictly correct.--I feel that I should certainly have been
impertinent."

"Oh!" cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought
infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual
composure--"there would have been no danger. The danger would have
been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than
by expressing an interest--. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very
great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those
of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not
disgusted to such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could
wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for
myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately--in short, if your
compassion does not stand my friend--"

"Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and
taking her hand. "You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you
might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted
even--"

"You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.--So
cold and artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of
deceit!--I know that I must have disgusted you."

"Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done
quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you
have pleasant accounts from Windsor?"

"Very."

"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--just as
I begin to know you."

"Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here
till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."

"Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps," replied Emma,
smiling--"but, excuse me, it must be thought of."

The smile was returned as Jane answered,

"You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I
am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill
at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of
deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing
more to wait for."

"Thank you, thank you.--This is just what I wanted to be assured
of.--Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and
open!--Good-bye, good-bye."



CHAPTER XVII


Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in
wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with
any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's
sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father
and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew
older--and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence--to
have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks
and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston--no
one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be
quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have
their powers in exercise again.

"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," she
continued--"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame
de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little
Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan."

"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, "she will indulge her even more than
she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will
be the only difference."

"Poor child!" cried Emma; "at that rate, what will become of her?"

"Nothing very bad.--The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable
in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my
bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all
my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be
severe on them?"

Emma laughed, and replied: "But I had the assistance of all your
endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether
my own sense would have corrected me without it."

"Do you?--I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:--Miss Taylor
gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite
as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what
right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to
feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did
you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the
tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without
doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors,
have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least."

"I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often
influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I
am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be
spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her
as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is
thirteen."

"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your
saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I
may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I
did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad
feelings instead of one."

"What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches
in such affectionate remembrance."

"'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from
habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want
you to call me something else, but I do not know what."

"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about
ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as
you made no objection, I never did it again."

"And cannot you call me 'George' now?"

"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I
will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by
calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing
and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.
I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in
which N. takes M. for better, for worse."

Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important
service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the
advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly
follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a
subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned
between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being
thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy,
and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were
declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other
circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that
her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on
Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to
the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.

Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be
expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which
appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but,
since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet
different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure,
was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing
with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and
hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer;
her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John
Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain
till they could bring her back.

"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is
his answer, if you like to see it."

It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma
accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know
what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her
friend was unmentioned.

"John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley,
"but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have,
likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making
flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in
her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes."

"He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the
letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the
good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not
without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as
you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different
construction, I should not have believed him."

"My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--"

"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,"
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than
he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject."

"Emma, my dear Emma--"

"Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother
does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,
and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing
_you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on
your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not
sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards
oppressed worth can go no farther."

"Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as
John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be
happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice
it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by
surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the
kind."

"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having
some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly
unprepared for that."

"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my
feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any
difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at
this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I
suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them
the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much
as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems
always tired now.'"

The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that
her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to
announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her
father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.
Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have
failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come
at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was
forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a
more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.
She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she
could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,
in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be
obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,
since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr.
Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the
constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next
to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.

Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of
having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be
a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella,
and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him
affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must
not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them
from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not
going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing
no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she
was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.
Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did
he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did,
she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.
Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters,
who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached
to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That
was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should
be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it
was.--Why could not they go on as they had done?

Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,
the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To
Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond
praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon
used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all
the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest
approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to
consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled,
and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance
of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed
upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be
guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some
feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some
time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very
bad if the marriage did take place.

Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she
said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized,
never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she
saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in
urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as
to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect
so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one
respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,
so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely
have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself
been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it
long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma
would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.
Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such
an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for
a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe
and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr.
Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish
the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of
themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was
nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was
all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name.
It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without
one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.

Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections
as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could
increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have
outgrown its first set of caps.

The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston
had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to
familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages
of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;
but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he
was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.

"It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a
secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be
told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion."

He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that
point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest
daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed,
of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately
afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it
would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening
wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.

In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and
others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their
all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys;
and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet,
upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one
habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any
satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife;
he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and
supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and,
on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather
he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor
Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely
concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good
qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in
love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all
pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine
with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor
fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh!
no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every
thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that
she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living
together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who
had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
quarter.



CHAPTER XVIII


Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would
be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one
morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when
Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the
first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began
with,

"I have something to tell you, Emma; some news."

"Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face.

"I do not know which it ought to be called."

"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not
to smile."

"I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid,
my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it."

"Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases
or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too."

"There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not
think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on
her face. "Does nothing occur to you?--Do not you recollect?--Harriet
Smith."

Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though
she knew not what.

"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I
believe, and know the whole."

"No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me."

"You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet
Smith marries Robert Martin."

Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared--and her eyes,
in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed.

"It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert
Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago."

She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.

"You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were
the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one
or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not
talk much on the subject."

"You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself.
"It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I
cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say,
that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he
has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it."

"I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but
determined decision, "and been accepted."

"Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket,
in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite
feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be
expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this
intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was
more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how
has it been possible?"

"It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,
and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send
to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was
asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's. They were
going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's. The party was to be our
brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could
not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused;
and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day--which he
did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an
opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak
in vain.--She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is
deserving. He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this
morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first
on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of
the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much
longer history when you see her.--She will give you all the minute
particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our
communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that
Robert Martin's heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing;
and that he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that
on quitting their box at Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John
Knightley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry;
and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith
rather uneasy."

He stopped.--Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she
was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.
She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed
him; and after observing her a little while, he added,

"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you
unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His
situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your
friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him
as you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight
you.--As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend
in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is
saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.--You laugh at me about William
Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin."

He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not
to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering,

"You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think
Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than
_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they
are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You
cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared
I was!--for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined
against him, much more, than she was before."

"You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I
should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be
very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her."

Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe
you know her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you
perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him.
I could suppose she might in time--but can she already?--Did not you
misunderstand him?--You were both talking of other things; of business,
shows of cattle, or new drills--and might not you, in the confusion of
so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not Harriet's hand that he was
certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox."

The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert
Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong
was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's
side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis,
"No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was
really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature.
It could not be otherwise.

"Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose me
so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?--What do
you deserve?"

"Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with
any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are
you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and
Harriet now are?"

"I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he
told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing
doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that
it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew
of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of
her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done,
than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he
said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day."

"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,
"and most sincerely wish them happy."

"You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before."

"I hope so--for at that time I was a fool."

"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all
Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for
Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much
in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often
talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes,
indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor
Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations,
I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good
notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in
the affections and utility of domestic life.--Much of this, I have no
doubt, she may thank you for."

"Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!"

She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more
praise than she deserved.

Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her
father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a
state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be
collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she
had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she
could be fit for nothing rational.

Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the
horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she
had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.

The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of
him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.
Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility
and circumspection in future.

Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her
resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the
very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the
doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet!

Now there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a
pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.

High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would
soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to
practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him
that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to
welcome as a duty.

In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not
always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in
speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his
being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.

They arrived.--Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:--but hardly
had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks
for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the
blind, of two figures passing near the window.

"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to
tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He
stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the
day with us.--They are coming in, I hope."

In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to
see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of embarrassing
recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all
sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that
Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long
felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane,
would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the
party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a
want of subject or animation--or of courage and opportunity for Frank
Churchill to draw near her and say,

"I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message
in one of Mrs. Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less
willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said."

"No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am
particularly glad to see and shake hands with you--and to give you joy
in person."

He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with
serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.

"Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
"Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father and Mrs. Weston
doat upon her."

But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of
Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.

"I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame."

"The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it
possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late. Early, I know, you
had none."

"I never had the smallest, I assure you."

"That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish I
had--it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong
things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no
service.--It would have been a much better transgression had I broken
the bond of secrecy and told you every thing."

"It is not now worth a regret," said Emma.

"I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a
visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells
are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust,
till we may carry her northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from
her--is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?--Till this morning, we have not
once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?"

Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay
thought, he cried,

"Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the
moment--"I hope Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and
laughed.--"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish
in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.--I assure you that
I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.--He is
a man whom I cannot presume to praise."

Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but
his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,
and his next words were,

"Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness! such delicacy!--and
yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair. It is a
most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair--a most
distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.--Just colour
enough for beauty."

"I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but
do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so
pale?--When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?"

"Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--"

But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help
saying,

"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you
had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.--I am
sure it was a consolation to you."

"Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most
miserable wretch!"

"Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a
source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us
all in.--Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the
truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same
situation. I think there is a little likeness between us."

He bowed.

"If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true
sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids
fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own."

"True, true," he answered, warmly. "No, not true on your side. You can
have no superior, but most true on mine.--She is a complete angel. Look
at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her
throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.--You will
be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my
uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set.
I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be
beautiful in her dark hair?"

"Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he
gratefully burst out,

"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent
looks!--I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should
certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come."

The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account
of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the
infant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,
but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending
for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been
almost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the child had
been perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly
interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for
thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done
it. "She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the
slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be
too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps,
that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now,
very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had
seen it."

Frank Churchill caught the name.

"Perry!" said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss
Fairfax's eye. "My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.
Perry?--Has he been here this morning?--And how does he travel now?--Has
he set up his carriage?"

Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the
laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really
hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.

"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!" he cried. "I can never think of
it without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see
it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do
not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,
which sent me the report, is passing under her eye--that the whole
blunder is spread before her--that she can attend to nothing else,
though pretending to listen to the others?"

Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly
remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet
steady voice,

"How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!--They
_will_ sometimes obtrude--but how you can court them!"

He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but
Emma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving
Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she
felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really
regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more
sensible of Mr. Knightley's high superiority of character. The happiness
of this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated
contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.



CHAPTER XIX


If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a
momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her
attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from
unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the
recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party
from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour
alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable
as it was!--that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,
and was now forming all her views of happiness.

Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish at first:
but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and
self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with
the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the
fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend's
approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by
meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.--Harriet was
most happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley's, and the
dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.
But what did such particulars explain?--The fact was, as Emma could now
acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his
continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must ever
be unintelligible to Emma.

The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh
reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage became known. She proved
to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the
comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to
have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility
which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!--It was likely to
be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what
a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the
Churchills--or even for Mr. Elton!--The stain of illegitimacy,
unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.

No objection was raised on the father's side; the young man was treated
liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted
with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully
acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could
bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's
happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he
offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and
improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,
and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety,
and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into
temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable
and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the
world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a
man;--or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.

Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,
was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.--The
intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change
into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be,
and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural
manner.

Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw
her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as
no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,
could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,
but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on
herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of
the three, were the first to be married.

Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the
comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills
were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.

The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by
Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought
to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to
allow them the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was
the plan.--John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in
approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced
to consent?--he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a
distant event.

When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were
almost hopeless.--A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.--He
began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it--a very
promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he
was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's
courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know
him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding almost
acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when
once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she
hesitated--she could not proceed.

In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden
illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change of his
nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another
way.--Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her
turkeys--evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in
the neighbourhood also suffered.--Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.
Woodhouse's fears.--He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his
son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every
night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the
Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them
protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.--But Mr. John Knightley must
be in London again by the end of the first week in November.

The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,
cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the
moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called
on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to
join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.

The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have
no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars
detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very
inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a
most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But,
in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,
the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the
ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.


CHAPTER I

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon,
with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck
to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park,
in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts
and consequences of an handsome house and large income.
All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match,
and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at least
three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it.
She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation;
and such of their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss
Frances quite as handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple
to predict their marrying with almost equal advantage.
But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune
in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.
Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found
herself obliged to be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris,
a friend of her brother-in-law, with scarcely any
private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse.
Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the point,
was not contemptible:  Sir Thomas being happily able
to give his friend an income in the living of Mansfield;
and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal
felicity with very little less than a thousand a year.
But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase,
to disoblige her family, and by fixing on a lieutenant
of marines, without education, fortune, or connexions,
did it very thoroughly.  She could hardly have made
a more untoward choice.  Sir Thomas Bertram had interest,
which, from principle as well as pride--from a general
wish of doing right, and a desire of seeing all that were
connected with him in situations of respectability,
he would have been glad to exert for the advantage
of Lady Bertram's sister; but her husband's profession
was such as no interest could reach; and before he
had time to devise any other method of assisting them,
an absolute breach between the sisters had taken place.
It was the natural result of the conduct of each party,
and such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces.
To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never
wrote to her family on the subject till actually married.
Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings,
and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would have
contented herself with merely giving up her sister,
and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris
had a spirit of activity, which could not be satisfied
till she had written a long and angry letter to Fanny,
to point out the folly of her conduct, and threaten
her with all its possible ill consequences.  Mrs. Price,
in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer,
which comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed
such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir
Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself,
put an end to all intercourse between them for a considerable
period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they
moved so distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever
hearing of each other's existence during the eleven
following years, or, at least, to make it very wonderful
to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have it
in her power to tell them, as she now and then did,
in an angry voice, that Fanny had got another child.
By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no
longer afford to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose one
connexion that might possibly assist her.  A large and still
increasing family, an husband disabled for active service,
but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a
very small income to supply their wants, made her eager
to regain the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed;
and she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke
so much contrition and despondence, such a superfluity
of children, and such a want of almost everything else,
as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation.
She was preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after
bewailing the circumstance, and imploring their countenance
as sponsors to the expected child, she could not conceal
how important she felt they might be to the future
maintenance of the eight already in being.  Her eldest
was a boy of ten years old, a fine spirited fellow,
who longed to be out in the world; but what could she do?
Was there any chance of his being hereafter useful to Sir
Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?
No situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas
think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to
the East?

The letter was not unproductive.  It re-established
peace and kindness.  Sir Thomas sent friendly
advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched
money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth
a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it.
Mrs. Norris was often observing to the others that she
could not get her poor sister and her family out of
her head, and that, much as they had all done for her,
she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she
could not but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price
should be relieved from the charge and expense of one child
entirely out of her great number.  "What if they were
among them to undertake the care of her eldest daughter,
a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more
attention than her poor mother could possibly give?
The trouble and expense of it to them would be nothing,
compared with the benevolence of the action."  Lady Bertram
agreed with her instantly.  "I think we cannot do better,"
said she; "let us send for the child."

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified
a consent.  He debated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--
a girl so brought up must be adequately provided for,
or there would be cruelty instead of kindness in taking
her from her family.  He thought of his own four children,
of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner
had he deliberately begun to state his objections,
than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a reply to them all,
whether stated or not.

"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do
justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions,
which indeed are quite of a piece with your general conduct;
and I entirely agree with you in the main as to the propriety
of doing everything one could by way of providing for a
child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to
withhold my mite upon such an occasion.  Having no children
of my own, who should I look to in any little matter I
may ever have to bestow, but the children of my sisters?--
and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am
a woman of few words and professions.  Do not let us
be frightened from a good deed by a trifle.  Give a girl
an education, and introduce her properly into the world,
and ten to one but she has the means of settling well,
without farther expense to anybody.  A niece of ours,
Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not
grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages.
I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins.
I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into
the society of this country under such very favourable
circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her
a creditable establishment.  You are thinking of your sons--
but do not you know that, of all things upon earth,
_that_ is the least likely to happen, brought up as they
would be, always together like brothers and sisters?
It is morally impossible.  I never knew an instance of it.
It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against
the connexion.  Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom
or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare
say there would be mischief.  The very idea of her having
been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty
and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear,
sweet-tempered boys in love with her.  But breed her up
with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the
beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than
a sister."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"
replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any
fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be
so consistent with the relative situations of each.  I only
meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in,
and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price,
and creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child,
or consider ourselves engaged to secure to her hereafter,
as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman,
if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine
in expecting."

"I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris,
"you are everything that is generous and considerate,
and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point.
Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready
enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I
could never feel for this little girl the hundredth
part of the regard I bear your own dear children,
nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own,
I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her.
Is not she a sister's child? and could I bear to see
her want while I had a bit of bread to give her?
My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart;
and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries
of life than do an ungenerous thing.  So, if you are not
against it, I will write to my poor sister tomorrow,
and make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled,
_I_ will engage to get the child to Mansfield; _you_ shall
have no trouble about it.  My own trouble, you know,
I never regard.  I will send Nanny to London on purpose,
and she may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's, and the
child be appointed to meet her there.  They may easily get
her from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the care
of any creditable person that may chance to be going.
I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife
or other going up."

Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer
made any objection, and a more respectable, though less
economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted,
everything was considered as settled, and the pleasures
of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed.
The division of gratifying sensations ought not,
in strict justice, to have been equal; for Sir Thomas was
fully resolved to be the real and consistent patron of the
selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention
of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.
As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached,
she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew better
how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of money
was equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite as
well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been
used to look forward to, she had, from the first,
fancied a very strict line of economy necessary;
and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew
into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful
solicitude which there were no children to supply.
Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might
never have saved her money; but having no care of that kind,
there was nothing to impede her frugality, or lessen the
comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they
had never lived up to.  Under this infatuating principle,
counteracted by no real affection for her sister,
it was impossible for her to aim at more than the credit
of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity;
though perhaps she might so little know herself as to
walk home to the Parsonage, after this conversation,
in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded
sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views
were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's
calm inquiry of "Where shall the child come to first,
sister, to you or to us?"  Sir Thomas heard with some
surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's
power to take any share in the personal charge of her.
He had been considering her as a particularly welcome
addition at the Parsonage, as a desirable companion
to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found
himself wholly mistaken.  Mrs. Norris was sorry to say
that the little girl's staying with them, at least
as things then were, was quite out of the question.
Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it
an impossibility:  he could no more bear the noise of a child
than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well
of his gouty complaints, it would be a different matter:
she should then be glad to take her turn, and think nothing
of the inconvenience; but just now, poor Mr. Norris
took up every moment of her time, and the very mention
of such a thing she was sure would distract him.

"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram,
with the utmost composure.  After a short pause Sir Thomas
added with dignity, "Yes, let her home be in this house.
We will endeavour to do our duty by her, and she will,
at least, have the advantage of companions of her own age,
and of a regular instructress."

"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very
important considerations; and it will be just the same
to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach,
or only two--there can be no difference.  I only wish I
could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power.
I am not one of those that spare their own trouble;
and Nanny shall fetch her, however it may put me
to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for
three days.  I suppose, sister, you will put the child
in the little white attic, near the old nurseries.
It will be much the best place for her, so near Miss Lee,
and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids,
who could either of them help to dress her, you know,
and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not
think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as
the others.  Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly
place her anywhere else."

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,"
continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon
good fortune in having such friends."

"Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas,
"we must not, for our own children's sake, continue her
in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great
an evil.  We shall probably see much to wish altered
in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance,
some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity
of manner; but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust,
can they be dangerous for her associates.  Had my daughters
been _younger_ than herself, I should have considered
the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very
serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing
to fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_,
from the association."

"That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris,
"and what I was saying to my husband this morning.
It will be an education for the child, said I, only being
with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her nothing, she would
learn to be good and clever from _them_."

"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram;
"I have but just got Julia to leave it alone."

"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris,"
observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made
between the girls as they grow up:  how to preserve in the
minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are,
without making them think too lowly of their cousin;
and how, without depressing her spirits too far,
to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_.
I should wish to see them very good friends, and would,
on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest degree
of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot
be equals.  Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations
will always be different.  It is a point of great delicacy,
and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly
the right line of conduct."

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she
perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most
difficult thing, encouraged him to hope that between
them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write
to her sister in vain.  Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised
that a girl should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys,
but accepted the offer most thankfully, assuring them of her
daughter's being a very well-disposed, good-humoured girl,
and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off.
She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny,
but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better
for change of air.  Poor woman! she probably thought
change of air might agree with many of her children.



CHAPTER II

The little girl performed her long journey in safety;
and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus
regaled in the credit of being foremost to welcome her,
and in the importance of leading her in to the others,
and recommending her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old,
and though there might not be much in her first appearance
to captivate, there was, at least, nothing to disgust
her relations.  She was small of her age, with no
glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty;
exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from notice;
but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice
was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty.
Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly;
and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement,
tried to be all that was conciliating:  but he had
to work against a most untoward gravity of deportment;
and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble,
or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid
of a good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful
character of the two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their
share in the introduction very well, with much good humour,
and no embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who,
at seventeen and sixteen, and tall of their age, had all
the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin.
The two girls were more at a loss from being younger
and in greater awe of their father, who addressed them
on the occasion with rather an injudicious particularity.
But they were too much used to company and praise to have
anything like natural shyness; and their confidence
increasing from their cousin's total want of it,
they were soon able to take a full survey of her face
and her frock in easy indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking,
the daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown
and forward of their age, which produced as striking
a difference between the cousins in person, as education
had given to their address; and no one would have supposed
the girls so nearly of an age as they really were.  There were
in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny.
Julia Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older.
The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible.
Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing
for the home she had left, she knew not how to look up,
and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without crying.
Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from
Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the
extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour
which it ought to produce, and her consciousness of
misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being
a wicked thing for her not to be happy.  The fatigue,
too, of so long a journey, became soon no trifling evil.
In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,
and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris
that she would be a good girl; in vain did Lady Bertram
smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and pug,
and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards
giving her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls
before tears interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her
likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

"This is not a very promising beginning," said Mrs. Norris,
when Fanny had left the room.  "After all that I said to her
as we came along, I thought she would have behaved better;
I told her how much might depend upon her acquitting
herself well at first.  I wish there may not be a little
sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal;
but we must make allowances for such a child--and I
do not know that her being sorry to leave her home is
really against her, for, with all its faults, it _was_
her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much she
has changed for the better; but then there is moderation
in all things."

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris
was inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty
of Mansfield Park, and the separation from everybody
she had been used to.  Her feelings were very acute,
and too little understood to be properly attended to.
Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out
of their way to secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day,
on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with,
and entertaining their young cousin, produced little union.
They could not but hold her cheap on finding that she
had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when
they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they
were so good as to play, they could do no more than make
her a generous present of some of their least valued toys,
and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever
might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment,
making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in
the schoolroom, the drawing-room, or the shrubbery,
was equally forlorn, finding something to fear in
every person and place.  She was disheartened by Lady
Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks,
and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's admonitions.
Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size,
and abashed her by noticing her shyness:  Miss Lee
wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered
at her clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea
of the brothers and sisters among whom she had always
been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse,
the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her.
The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease:
whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she
crept about in constant terror of something or other;
often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room
when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible
of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day's sorrows
by sobbing herself to sleep.  A week had passed in this way,
and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner,
when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness
of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?"  And sitting
down by her, he was at great pains to overcome her shame
in being so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly.
Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or had she
quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain?
Did she, in short, want anything he could possibly get her,
or do for her?  For a long while no answer could be
obtained beyond a "no, no--not at all--no, thank you";
but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to
revert to her own home, than her increased sobs explained
to him where the grievance lay.  He tried to console her.

"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,"
said he, "which shows you to be a very good girl; but you
must remember that you are with relations and friends,
who all love you, and wish to make you happy.  Let us walk
out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your
brothers and sisters."

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all
these brothers and sisters generally were, there was one
among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest.
It was William whom she talked of most, and wanted most
to see.  William, the eldest, a year older than herself,
her constant companion and friend; her advocate with her
mother (of whom he was the darling) in every distress.
"William did not like she should come away; he had told
her he should miss her very much indeed."  "But William will
write to you, I dare say."  "Yes, he had promised he would,
but he had told _her_ to write first."  "And when shall
you do it?"  She hung her head and answered hesitatingly,
"she did not know; she had not any paper."

"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you
with paper and every other material, and you may write
your letter whenever you choose.  Would it make you
happy to write to William?"

"Yes, very."

"Then let it be done now.  Come with me into the
breakfast-room, we shall find everything there,
and be sure of having the room to ourselves."

"But, cousin, will it go to the post?"

"Yes, depend upon me it shall:  it shall go with the
other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it,
it will cost William nothing."

"My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it
to my father to frank."

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further
resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room,
where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines
with all the goodwill that her brother could himself
have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness.
He continued with her the whole time of her writing,
to assist her with his penknife or his orthography,
as either were wanted; and added to these attentions,
which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother which
delighted her beyond all the rest.  He wrote with his own
hand his love to his cousin William, and sent him half
a guinea under the seal.  Fanny's feelings on the occasion
were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing;
but her countenance and a few artless words fully
conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin
began to find her an interesting object.  He talked
to her more, and, from all that she said, was convinced
of her having an affectionate heart, and a strong desire
of doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther
entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation,
and great timidity.  He had never knowingly given her pain,
but he now felt that she required more positive kindness;
and with that view endeavoured, in the first place,
to lessen her fears of them all, and gave her especially
a great deal of good advice as to playing with Maria
and Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable.  She felt
that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin
Edmund gave her better spirits with everybody else.
The place became less strange, and the people less formidable;
and if there were some amongst them whom she could not
cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways,
and to catch the best manner of conforming to them.
The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at
first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,
and not least of herself, necessarily wore away, and she
was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle,
nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much.
To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion.
Though unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength,
to be their constant associate, their pleasures and schemes
were sometimes of a nature to make a third very useful,
especially when that third was of an obliging,
yielding temper; and they could not but own, when their
aunt inquired into her faults, or their brother Edmund
urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was
good-natured enough."

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing
worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort
of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always
think fair with a child of ten.  He was just entering
into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only
for expense and enjoyment.  His kindness to his little
cousin was consistent with his situation and rights:
he made her some very pretty presents, and laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris
thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan;
and it was pretty soon decided between them that,
though far from clever, she showed a tractable disposition,
and seemed likely to give them little trouble.  A mean
opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.
Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught
nothing more; and as her cousins found her ignorant
of many things with which they had been long familiar,
they thought her prodigiously stupid, and for the first
two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh
report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think,
my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together--
or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia--
or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or she does not know
the difference between water-colours and crayons!--
How strange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?"

"My dear," their considerate aunt would reply,
"it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody
to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."

"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know,
we asked her last night which way she would go to get
to Ireland; and she said, she should cross to the Isle
of Wight.  She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight,
and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no
other island in the world.  I am sure I should have been
ashamed of myself, if I had not known better long before I
was so old as she is.  I cannot remember the time when I
did not know a great deal that she has not the least
notion of yet.  How long ago it is, aunt, since we used
to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England,
with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal
events of their reigns!"

"Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors
as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen
mythology, and all the metals, semi-metals, planets,
and distinguished philosophers."

"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with
wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none
at all.  There is a vast deal of difference in memories,
as well as in everything else, and therefore you must
make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency.
And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever
yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you
know already, there is a great deal more for you to learn."

"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen.  But I must
tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid.
Do you know, she says she does not want to learn either
music or drawing."

"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed,
and shows a great want of genius and emulation.
But, all things considered, I do not know whether it is
not as well that it should be so, for, though you know
(owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring
her up with you, it is not at all necessary that she
should be as accomplished as you are;--on the contrary,
it is much more desirable that there should be a difference."

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form
her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that,
with all their promising talents and early information,
they should be entirely deficient in the less common
acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and humility.
In everything but disposition they were admirably taught.
Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a
truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate,
and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their
spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not
the smallest attention.  She had not time for such cares.
She was a woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed,
on a sofa, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use
and no beauty, thinking more of her pug than her children,
but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put
herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important
by Sir Thomas, and in smaller concerns by her sister.
Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of her girls,
she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they
were under the care of a governess, with proper masters,
and could want nothing more.  As for Fanny's being stupid
at learning, "she could only say it was very unlucky,
but some people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains:
she did not know what else was to be done; and, except her
being so dull, she must add she saw no harm in the poor
little thing, and always found her very handy and quick
in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted."

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity,
was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer
in its favour much of her attachment to her former home,
grew up there not unhappily among her cousins.  There was
no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though
Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her,
she thought too lowly of her own claims to feel injured
by it.

From about the time of her entering the family,
Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health,
and a great deal of indolence, gave up the house in town,
which she had been used to occupy every spring,
and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas
to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase
or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence.
In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued
to exercise their memories, practise their duets, and grow
tall and womanly:  and their father saw them becoming
in person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that
could satisfy his anxiety.  His eldest son was careless
and extravagant, and had already given him much uneasiness;
but his other children promised him nothing but good.
His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name
of Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it,
he trusted, would extend its respectable alliances;
and the character of Edmund, his strong good sense
and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility,
honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions.
He was to be a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own
children suggested, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what
he could for the children of Mrs. Price:  he assisted
her liberally in the education and disposal of her sons
as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit;
and Fanny, though almost totally separated from her family,
was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of any
kindness towards them, or of anything at all promising
in their situation or conduct.  Once, and once only,
in the course of many years, had she the happiness
of being with William.  Of the rest she saw nothing:
nobody seemed to think of her ever going amongst them again,
even for a visit, nobody at home seemed to want her;
but William determining, soon after her removal,
to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his
sister in Northamptonshire before he went to sea.
Their eager affection in meeting, their exquisite
delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth,
and moments of serious conference, may be imagined;
as well as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy even
to the last, and the misery of the girl when he left her.
Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays,
when she could directly look for comfort to her cousin Edmund;
and he told her such charming things of what William was
to do, and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession,
as made her gradually admit that the separation might
have some use.  Edmund's friendship never failed her:
his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in his kind
dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities
of proving them.  Without any display of doing more than
the rest, or any fear of doing too much, he was always
true to her interests, and considerate of her feelings,
trying to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer
the diffidence which prevented their being more apparent;
giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support
could not bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise
of the highest importance in assisting the improvement
of her mind, and extending its pleasures.  He knew her to
be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense,
and a fondness for reading, which, properly directed,
must be an education in itself.  Miss Lee taught her French,
and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he
recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours,
he encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment:
he made reading useful by talking to her of what she read,
and heightened its attraction by judicious praise.
In return for such services she loved him better than
anybody in the world except William:  her heart was divided
between the two.



CHAPTER III

The first event of any importance in the family was
the death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was
about fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterations
and novelties.  Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage,
removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house
of Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself
for the loss of her husband by considering that she
could do very well without him; and for her reduction
of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle
died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given
to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders.
But Tom's extravagance had, previous to that event,
been so great as to render a different disposal of the
next presentation necessary, and the younger brother
must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder.
There was another family living actually held for Edmund;
but though this circumstance had made the arrangement
somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not
but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestly
tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction,
in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he
had yet been able to say or do.

"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner;
"I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust
I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion.
You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years,
perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought
to be his.  It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours
(I hope it will), to procure him better preferment;
but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that
sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us,
and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for the
certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego
through the urgency of your debts."

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow;
but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with
cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had
not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece
of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent,
whoever he might be, would, in all probability, die very soon.

On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of
a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield;
and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed
likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations.
But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow,
and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off."

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children;
and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair
report of being very respectable, agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his
sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece,
the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement
in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any former
objection to their living together, but even to give it
the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances
were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent
losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest
son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be
relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation
of her future provision.  In the fullness of his belief
that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability
to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring
to her again happening to be when Fanny was present,
she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going
to leave us, and live with my sister.  How shall you like it?"

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat
her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?"

"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished?
You have been five years with us, and my sister
always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same."

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected.
She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris,
and could not love her.

"I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a
faltering voice.

"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough.
I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came
into this house as any creature in the world."

"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly.

"No, my dear; I hope not.  I have always found you
a very good girl."

"And am I never to live here again?"

"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home.
It can make very little difference to you, whether you are
in one house or the other."

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could
not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think
of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction.
As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress.

"Cousin," said she, "something is going to happen which I
do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me
into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first,
you will not be able to do it now.  I am going to live
entirely with my aunt Norris."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so.  It is quite settled.
I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House,
I suppose, as soon as she is removed there."

"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you,
I should call it an excellent one."

"Oh, cousin!"

"It has everything else in its favour.  My aunt is
acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you.  She is
choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought,
and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.
You will be what you ought to be to her.  I hope it does
not distress you very much, Fanny?"

"Indeed it does:  I cannot like it.  I love this house
and everything in it:  I shall love nothing there.
You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."

"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child;
but it was the same with us all, or nearly so.  She never
knew how to be pleasant to children.  But you are now
of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving
better already; and when you are her only companion,
you _must_ be important to her."

"I can never be important to any one."

"What is to prevent you?"

"Everything.  My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."

"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny,
believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using
the words so improperly.  There is no reason in the world
why you should not be important where you are known.
You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you
have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness
without wishing to return it.  I do not know any better
qualifications for a friend and companion."

"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise;
"how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking
so well of me.  Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall
remember your goodness to the last moment of my life."

"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at
such a distance as the White House.  You speak as if you
were going two hundred miles off instead of only across
the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever.
The two families will be meeting every day in the year.
The only difference will be that, living with your aunt,
you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be.
_Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with
_her_ you will be forced to speak for yourself."

"Oh!  I do not say so."

"I must say it, and say it with pleasure.  Mrs. Norris
is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge
of you now.  She is of a temper to do a great deal
for anybody she really interests herself about, and she
will force you to do justice to your natural powers."

Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do;
but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself,
and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile
me to what must be.  If I could suppose my aunt really
to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself
of consequence to anybody.  _Here_, I know, I am of none,
and yet I love the place so well."

"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you
quit the house.  You will have as free a command of the
park and gardens as ever.  Even _your_ constant little
heart need not take fright at such a nominal change.
You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library
to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse
to ride."

"Very true.  Yes, dear old grey pony!  Ah! cousin, when I
remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors
it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good
(oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips
if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind
pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears,
and convince me that I should like it after a little while,
and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope
you may always prophesy as well."

"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris
will be as good for your mind as riding has been for
your health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too."

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate
service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared,
for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her.
It had never occurred to her, on the present occasion,
but as a thing to be carefully avoided.  To prevent its
being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation
which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield
parish, the White House being only just large enough to
receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room
for a friend, of which she made a very particular point.
The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted,
but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend
was now never forgotten.  Not all her precautions, however,
could save her from being suspected of something better;
or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a
spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it
really intended for Fanny.  Lady Bertram soon brought
the matter to a certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--

"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer,
when Fanny goes to live with you."

Mrs. Norris almost started.  "Live with me, dear Lady
Bertram! what do you mean?"

"Is she not to live with you?  I thought you had settled
it with Sir Thomas."

"Me! never.  I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas,
nor he to me.  Fanny live with me! the last thing in the
world for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that really
knows us both.  Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny?
Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything,
my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl
at her time of life?  A girl of fifteen! the very age
of all others to need most attention and care, and put
the cheerfullest spirits to the test!  Sure Sir Thomas
could not seriously expect such a thing!  Sir Thomas is too
much my friend.  Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure,
would propose it.  How came Sir Thomas to speak to you
about it?"

"Indeed, I do not know.  I suppose he thought it best."

"But what did he say?  He could not say he _wished_ me
to take Fanny.  I am sure in his heart he could not wish
me to do it."

"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought
so too.  We both thought it would be a comfort to you.
But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said.
She is no encumbrance here."

"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she
be any comfort to me?  Here am I, a poor desolate widow,
deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attending
and nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my peace
in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to support
me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live
so as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed--
what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge
upon me as Fanny?  If I could wish it for my own sake,
I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.
She is in good hands, and sure of doing well.  I must
struggle through my sorrows and difficulties as I can."

"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"

"Lady Bertram, I do not complain.  I know I cannot
live as I have done, but I must retrench where I can,
and learn to be a better manager.  I _have_ _been_
a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed
to practise economy now.  My situation is as much
altered as my income.  A great many things were due
from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish,
that cannot be expected from me.  It is unknown how much
was consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers.
At the White House, matters must be better looked after.
I _must_ live within my income, or I shall be miserable;
and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be able
to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of
the year."

"I dare say you will.  You always do, don't you?"

"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that
come after me.  It is for your children's good that I
wish to be richer.  I have nobody else to care for,
but I should be very glad to think I could leave a little
trifle among them worth their having."

"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them.
They are sure of being well provided for.  Sir Thomas
will take care of that."

"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened
if the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns."

"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled.  Sir Thomas has been
writing about it, I know."

"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, moving to go,
"I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use
to your family:  and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak
again about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say that
my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;
besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her,
for I must keep a spare room for a friend."

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation
to her husband to convince him how much he had mistaken
his sister-in-law's views; and she was from that moment
perfectly safe from all expectation, or the slightest
allusion to it from him.  He could not but wonder at her
refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so
forward to adopt; but, as she took early care to make him,
as well as Lady Bertram, understand that whatever she
possessed was designed for their family, he soon grew
reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time
that it was advantageous and complimentary to them,
would enable him better to provide for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal;
and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery,
conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment
in what he had expected to be so essentially serviceable
to her.  Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House,
the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over,
everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable,
gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance.
They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out.
The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a good
dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving
to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high
wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever
seen in her offices.  Mrs. Norris could not speak with any
temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter
and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house.
"Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;
nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage,
she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort,
had never borne a bad character in _her_ _time_, but this
was a way of going on that she could not understand.
A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place.
_Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough
for Mrs. Grant to go into.  Inquire where she would,
she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more
than five thousand pounds."

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this
sort of invective.  She could not enter into the wrongs
of an economist, but she felt all the injuries of beauty
in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without
being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on
that point almost as often, though not so diffusely,
as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before
another event arose of such importance in the family,
as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and
conversation of the ladies.  Sir Thomas found it expedient
to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement
of his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him,
in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions
at home.  They left England with the probability of being
nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light,
and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir
Thomas to the effort of quitting the rest of his family,
and of leaving his daughters to the direction of others
at their present most interesting time of life.
He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his
place with them, or rather, to perform what should have
been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention,
and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence
to make him go without fears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her;
but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety,
or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons
who think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult,
or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion:
not for their sorrow, but for their want of it.
Their father was no object of love to them; he had never
seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence
was unhappily most welcome.  They were relieved by it from
all restraint; and without aiming at one gratification
that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas,
they felt themselves immediately at their own disposal,
and to have every indulgence within their reach.
Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite
equal to her cousins'; but a more tender nature suggested
that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really
grieved because she could not grieve.  "Sir Thomas,
who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was
gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him
go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility."
He had said to her, moreover, on the very last morning,
that he hoped she might see William again in the course
of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write
and invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron
to which he belonged should be known to be in England.
"This was so thoughtful and kind!" and would he only
have smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny,"
while he said it, every former frown or cold address
might have been forgotten.  But he had ended his speech
in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding,
"If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able
to convince him that the many years which have passed
since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely
without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister
at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten."
She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle
was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes,
set her down as a hypocrite.



CHAPTER IV

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at
home that he could be only nominally missed; and Lady
Bertram was soon astonished to find how very well they
did even without his father, how well Edmund could
supply his place in carving, talking to the steward,
writing to the attorney, settling with the servants,
and equally saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion
in every particular but that of directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival
at Antigua, after a favourable voyage, was received;
though not before Mrs. Norris had been indulging in very
dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund participate them
whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended
on being the first person made acquainted with any
fatal catastrophe, she had already arranged the manner of
breaking it to all the others, when Sir Thomas's assurances
of their both being alive and well made it necessary to lay
by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being
called for; the accounts continued perfectly good;
and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for her nieces,
assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,
and looking about for their future husbands, had so much
to do as, in addition to all her own household cares,
some interference in those of her sister, and Mrs. Grant's
wasteful doings to overlook, left her very little occasion
to be occupied in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the
belles of the neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty
and brilliant acquirements a manner naturally easy,
and carefully formed to general civility and obligingness,
they possessed its favour as well as its admiration.
Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed
to be quite free from it, and gave themselves no airs;
while the praises attending such behaviour, secured and
brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in
believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters.
She was too indolent even to accept a mother's gratification
in witnessing their success and enjoyment at the expense
of any personal trouble, and the charge was made over
to her sister, who desired nothing better than a post
of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly
relished the means it afforded her of mixing in society
without having horses to hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season;
but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion
when they called away the rest of the family; and, as Miss
Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally became everything
to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.
She talked to her, listened to her, read to her;
and the tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security
in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any sound of unkindness,
was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom
known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.  As to
her cousins' gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them,
especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with;
but thought too lowly of her own situation to imagine
she should ever be admitted to the same, and listened,
therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern in them.
Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her;
for though it brought no William to England, the never-failing
hope of his arrival was worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend,
the old grey pony; and for some time she was in danger of
feeling the loss in her health as well as in her affections;
for in spite of the acknowledged importance of her riding
on horse-back, no measures were taken for mounting
her again, "because," as it was observed by her aunts,
"she might ride one of her cousin's horses at any time
when they did not want them," and as the Miss Bertrams
regularly wanted their horses every fine day, and had no
idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice
of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came.
They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings
of April and May; and Fanny either sat at home the whole
day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at the
instigation of the other:  Lady Bertram holding exercise
to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant
to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,
thinking everybody ought to walk as much.  Edmund was absent
at this time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied.
When he returned, to understand how Fanny was situated,
and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but
one thing to be done; and that "Fanny must have a horse"
was the resolute declaration with which he opposed
whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother,
or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant.
Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady
old thing might be found among the numbers belonging
to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might
be borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant
might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the post.
She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary,
and even improper, that Fanny should have a regular
lady's horse of her own, in the style of her cousins.
She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:  and she
must say that, to be making such a purchase in his absence,
and adding to the great expenses of his stable,
at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled,
seemed to her very unjustifiable.  "Fanny must have
a horse," was Edmund's only reply.  Mrs. Norris could
not see it in the same light.  Lady Bertram did:
she entirely agreed with her son as to the necessity of it,
and as to its being considered necessary by his father;
she only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only
wanted him to wait till Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir
Thomas might settle it all himself.  He would be at home
in September, and where would be the harm of only waiting
till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than
with his mother, as evincing least regard for her niece,
he could not help paying more attention to what she said;
and at length determined on a method of proceeding
which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he
had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny
the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear
she should be without.  He had three horses of his own,
but not one that would carry a woman.  Two of them
were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse: this third he
resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride;
he knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once
made up his mind, the whole business was soon completed.
The new mare proved a treasure; with a very little
trouble she became exactly calculated for the purpose,
and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her.
She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit
her like the old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund's
mare was far beyond any former pleasure of the sort;
and the addition it was ever receiving in the consideration
of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung,
was beyond all her words to express.  She regarded
her cousin as an example of everything good and great,
as possessing worth which no one but herself could
ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude
from her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay.
Her sentiments towards him were compounded of all that
was respectful, grateful, confiding, and tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact,
the property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being
for Fanny's use; and had Lady Bertram ever thought about
her own objection again, he might have been excused in her
eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in September,
for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad,
and without any near prospect of finishing his business.
Unfavourable circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment
when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards England;
and the very great uncertainty in which everything was then
involved determined him on sending home his son, and waiting
the final arrangement by himself.  Tom arrived safely,
bringing an excellent account of his father's health;
but to very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris
was concerned.  Sir Thomas's sending away his son seemed
to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a
foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help
feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings
of autumn came on, was so terribly haunted by these ideas,
in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to be obliged
to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.
The return of winter engagements, however, was not
without its effect; and in the course of their progress,
her mind became so pleasantly occupied in superintending
the fortunes of her eldest niece, as tolerably to quiet
her nerves.  "If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to return,
it would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria
well married," she very often thought; always when they
were in the company of men of fortune, and particularly on
the introduction of a young man who had recently succeeded
to one of the largest estates and finest places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty
of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied
himself in love.  He was a heavy young man, with not more
than common sense; but as there was nothing disagreeable
in his figure or address, the young lady was well pleased
with her conquest.  Being now in her twenty-first year,
Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty;
and as a marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the
enjoyment of a larger income than her father's, as well as
ensure her the house in town, which was now a prime object,
it became, by the same rule of moral obligation,
her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could.
Mrs. Norris was most zealous in promoting the match,
by every suggestion and contrivance likely to enhance
its desirableness to either party; and, among other means,
by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother,
who at present lived with him, and to whom she even forced
Lady Bertram to go through ten miles of indifferent road
to pay a morning visit.  It was not long before a good
understanding took place between this lady and herself.
Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that
her son should marry, and declared that of all the young
ladies she had ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her
amiable qualities and accomplishments, the best adapted
to make him happy.  Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,
and admired the nice discernment of character which
could so well distinguish merit.  Maria was indeed
the pride and delight of them all--perfectly faultless--
an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by admirers, must be
difficult in her choice:  but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris
could allow herself to decide on so short an acquaintance,
Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve
and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls,
the young people justified these opinions, and an engagement,
with a due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into,
much to the satisfaction of their respective families,
and of the general lookers-on of the neighbourhood,
who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency
of Mr. Rushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could
be received; but, in the meanwhile, as no one felt
a doubt of his most cordial pleasure in the connexion,
the intercourse of the two families was carried on
without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy
than Mrs. Norris's talking of it everywhere as a matter
not to be talked of at present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault
in the business; but no representation of his aunt's could
induce him to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion.
He could allow his sister to be the best judge of her
own happiness, but he was not pleased that her happiness
should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain
from often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--
"If this man had not twelve thousand a year, he would be
a very stupid fellow."

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an
alliance so unquestionably advantageous, and of which he
heard nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable.
It was a connexion exactly of the right sort--
in the same county, and the same interest--and his most
hearty concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible.
He only conditioned that the marriage should not take
place before his return, which he was again looking
eagerly forward to.  He wrote in April, and had strong
hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction,
and leaving Antigua before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July;
and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year, when the
society of the village received an addition in the brother
and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford,
the children of her mother by a second marriage.
They were young people of fortune.  The son had a good
estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty thousand pounds.
As children, their sister had been always very fond
of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon followed
by the death of their common parent, which left them
to the care of a brother of their father, of whom
Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them since.
In their uncle's house they had found a kind home.
Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at least,
were no farther adverse in their feelings than that each
had their favourite, to whom they showed the greatest
fondness of the two.  The Admiral delighted in the boy,
Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's
death which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months'
further trial at her uncle's house, to find another home.
Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose,
instead of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress
under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted
for her sister's proposal of coming to her, a measure quite
as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the other;
for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual
resources of ladies residing in the country without a
family of children--having more than filled her favourite
sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice
collection of plants and poultry--was very much in want
of some variety at home.  The arrival, therefore, of a sister
whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with
her as long as she remained single, was highly agreeable;
and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy
the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used
to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar
apprehensions, though they arose principally from doubts
of her sister's style of living and tone of society;
and it was not till after she had tried in vain to persuade
her brother to settle with her at his own country house,
that she could resolve to hazard herself among her
other relations.  To anything like a permanence of abode,
or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily,
a great dislike:  he could not accommodate his sister
in an article of such importance; but he escorted her,
with the utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire,
and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at half
an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side.
Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness
or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked the gentleman,
and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant
received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever
a young man and woman of very prepossessing appearance.
Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome,
had air and countenance; the manners of both were lively
and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit
for everything else.  She was delighted with each,
but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been
able to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed
the power of being proud of her sister's. She had not waited
her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her:
she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet
was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds,
with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant
foresaw in her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman,
Mary had not been three hours in the house before she
told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence
so very near them, and not at all displeased either at
her sister's early care, or the choice it had fallen on.
Matrimony was her object, provided she could marry well:
and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that
objection could no more be made to his person than to
his situation in life.  While she treated it as a joke,
therefore, she did not forget to think of it seriously.
The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I have thought of something
to make it complete.  I should dearly love to settle you
both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall
marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice, handsome,
good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very happy."

Henry bowed and thanked her.

"My dear sister," said Mary, "if you can persuade him
into anything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of
delight to me to find myself allied to anybody so clever,
and I shall only regret that you have not half a dozen
daughters to dispose of.  If you can persuade Henry
to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman.
All that English abilities can do has been tried already.
I have three very particular friends who have been all
dying for him in their turn; and the pains which they,
their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear
aunt and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick
him into marrying, is inconceivable!  He is the most
horrible flirt that can be imagined.  If your Miss
Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them
avoid Henry."

"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you."

"No, I am sure you are too good.  You will be kinder than Mary.
You will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience.
I am of a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my
happiness in a hurry.  Nobody can think more highly of
the matrimonial state than myself.  I consider the blessing
of a wife as most justly described in those discreet
lines of the poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'"

"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word,
and only look at his smile.  I assure you he is very detestable;
the Admiral's lessons have quite spoiled him."

"I pay very little regard," said Mrs. Grant, "to what
any young person says on the subject of marriage.
If they profess a disinclination for it, I only set it
down that they have not yet seen the right person."

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford
on feeling no disinclination to the state herself.

"Oh yes!  I am not at all ashamed of it.  I would
have everybody marry if they can do it properly:
I do not like to have people throw themselves away;
but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it
to advantage."



CHAPTER V

The young people were pleased with each other from
the first.  On each side there was much to attract,
and their acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy
as good manners would warrant.  Miss Crawford's
beauty did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams.
They were too handsome themselves to dislike any woman
for being so too, and were almost as much charmed as their
brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown complexion,
and general prettiness.  Had she been tall, full formed,
and fair, it might have been more of a trial:  but as it was,
there could be no comparison; and she was most allowably
a sweet, pretty girl, while they were the finest young
women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome:  no, when they first saw him
he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he
was the gentleman, with a pleasing address.  The second
meeting proved him not so very plain:  he was plain,
to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his
teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one
soon forgot he was plain; and after a third interview,
after dining in company with him at the Parsonage,
he was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody.
He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters
had ever known, and they were equally delighted with him.
Miss Bertram's engagement made him in equity the property
of Julia, of which Julia was fully aware; and before he had
been at Mansfield a week, she was quite ready to be fallen
in love with.

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused
and indistinct.  She did not want to see or understand.
"There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man--
everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take care
of himself."  Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any danger!
the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready
to be pleased; and he began with no object but of making
them like him.  He did not want them to die of love;
but with sense and temper which ought to have made him
judge and feel better, he allowed himself great latitude
on such points.

"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he,
as he returned from attending them to their carriage
after the said dinner visit; "they are very elegant,
agreeable girls."

"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it.
But you like Julia best."

"Oh yes!  I like Julia best."

"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought
the handsomest."

"So I should suppose.  She has the advantage in every feature,
and I prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best;
Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found
her the most agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best,
because you order me."

"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_
like her best at last."

"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?"

"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged.  Remember that,
my dear brother.  Her choice is made."

"Yes, and I like her the better for it.  An engaged
woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged.
She is satisfied with herself.  Her cares are over,
and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing
without suspicion.  All is safe with a lady engaged:
no harm can be done."

"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort
of young man, and it is a great match for her."

"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him;
_that_ is your opinion of your intimate friend.  _I_ do
not subscribe to it.  I am sure Miss Bertram is very much
attached to Mr. Rushworth.  I could see it in her eyes,
when he was mentioned.  I think too well of Miss Bertram
to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."

"Mary, how shall we manage him?"

"We must leave him to himself, I believe.  Talking does
no good.  He will be taken in at last."

"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have
him duped; I would have it all fair and honourable."

"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in.
It will do just as well.  Everybody is taken in at some
period or other."

"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."

"In marriage especially.  With all due respect to such
of the present company as chance to be married, my dear
Mrs. Grant, there is not one in a hundred of either sex
who is not taken in when they marry.  Look where I will,
I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so,
when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one
in which people expect most from others, and are least
honest themselves."

"Ah!  You have been in a bad school for matrimony,
in Hill Street."

"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love
the state; but, however, speaking from my own observation,
it is a manoeuvring business.  I know so many who
have married in the full expectation and confidence
of some one particular advantage in the connexion,
or accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have
found themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged
to put up with exactly the reverse.  What is this but a take in?"

"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here.
I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite believe you.
Depend upon it, you see but half.  You see the evil,
but you do not see the consolation.  There will be
little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we
are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme
of happiness fails, human nature turns to another;
if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better:
we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded observers,
dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken
in and deceived than the parties themselves."

"Well done, sister!  I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_.
When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself;
and I wish my friends in general would be so too.  It would
save me many a heartache."

"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure
you both.  Mansfield shall cure you both, and without
any taking in.  Stay with us, and we will cure you."

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very
willing to stay.  Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage
as a present home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen
his visit.  He had come, intending to spend only a few
days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there
was nothing to call him elsewhere.  It delighted Mrs. Grant
to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly
well contented to have it so:  a talking pretty young
woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society
to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's
being his guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more
rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's habits made
her likely to feel.  She acknowledged, however, that the
Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men, that two such
young men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest,
were very good.  _He_ had been much in London,
and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund,
and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being
the eldest was another strong claim.  She had felt an early
presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best.
She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate;
he was the sort of young man to be generally liked,
his agreeableness was of the kind to be oftener found
agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp, for he
had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large acquaintance,
and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield Park,
and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this.  Miss Crawford
soon felt that he and his situation might do.  She looked
about her with due consideration, and found almost everything
in his favour:  a park, a real park, five miles round,
a spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well
screened as to deserve to be in any collection of engravings
of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be
completely new furnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet mother,
and an agreeable man himself--with the advantage of
being tied up from much gaming at present by a promise
to his father, and of being Sir Thomas hereafter.
It might do very well; she believed she should accept him;
and she began accordingly to interest herself a little
about the horse which he had to run at the B------- races.

These races were to call him away not long after their
acquaintance began; and as it appeared that the family
did not, from his usual goings on, expect him back
again for many weeks, it would bring his passion to an
early proof.  Much was said on his side to induce her
to attend the races, and schemes were made for a large
party to them, with all the eagerness of inclination,
but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this
while? and what was _her_ opinion of the newcomers?
Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on
to speak their opinion than Fanny.  In a quiet way,
very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration
to Miss Crawford's beauty; but as she still continued
to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of her two
cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary, she never
mentioned _him_.  The notice, which she excited herself,
was to this effect.  "I begin now to understand you all,
except Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as she was
walking with the Mr. Bertrams.  "Pray, is she out,
or is she not?  I am puzzled.  She dined at the Parsonage,
with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_;
and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose
she _is_."

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, "I believe
I know what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer
the question.  My cousin is grown up.  She has the age
and sense of a woman, but the outs and not outs are beyond me."

"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained.
The distinction is so broad.  Manners as well as
appearance are, generally speaking, so totally different.
Till now, I could not have supposed it possible to be
mistaken as to a girl's being out or not.  A girl not
out has always the same sort of dress:  a close bonnet,
for instance; looks very demure, and never says a word.
You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and except
that it is sometimes carried a little too far, it is
all very proper.  Girls should be quiet and modest.
The most objectionable part is, that the alteration
of manners on being introduced into company is frequently
too sudden.  They sometimes pass in such very little
time from reserve to quite the opposite--to confidence!
_That_ is the faulty part of the present system.
One does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen
so immediately up to every thing--and perhaps when one
has seen her hardly able to speak the year before.
Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with
such changes."

"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you
are at.  You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."

"No, indeed.  Miss Anderson!  I do not know who or what
you mean.  I am quite in the dark.  But I _will_ quiz you
with a great deal of pleasure, if you will tell me what about."

"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite
so far imposed on.  You must have had Miss Anderson
in your eye, in describing an altered young lady.
You paint too accurately for mistake.  It was exactly so.
The Andersons of Baker Street.  We were speaking of them
the other day, you know.  Edmund, you have heard me mention
Charles Anderson.  The circumstance was precisely as this
lady has represented it.  When Anderson first introduced
me to his family, about two years ago, his sister was
not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me.
I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson,
with only her and a little girl or two in the room,
the governess being sick or run away, and the mother
in and out every moment with letters of business, and I
could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--
nothing like a civil answer--she screwed up her mouth,
and turned from me with such an air!  I did not see
her again for a twelvemonth.  She was then _out_.
I met her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her.
She came up to me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me
out of countenance; and talked and laughed till I did not
know which way to look.  I felt that I must be the jest
of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain,
has heard the story."

"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth
in it, I dare say, than does credit to Miss Anderson.
It is too common a fault.  Mothers certainly have not yet
got quite the right way of managing their daughters.
I do not know where the error lies.  I do not pretend to set
people right, but I do see that they are often wrong."

"Those who are showing the world what female manners
_should_ be," said Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are doing
a great deal to set them right."

"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund;
"such girls are ill brought up.  They are given wrong notions
from the beginning.  They are always acting upon motives
of vanity, and there is no more real modesty in their
behaviour _before_ they appear in public than afterwards."

"I do not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly.
"Yes, I cannot agree with you there.  It is certainly
the modestest part of the business.  It is much worse to
have girls not out give themselves the same airs and take
the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen done.
That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!"

"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed," said Mr. Bertram.
"It leads one astray; one does not know what to do.
The close bonnet and demure air you describe so well (and
nothing was ever juster), tell one what is expected;
but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want
of them.  I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend
last September, just after my return from the West Indies.
My friend Sneyd--you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund--
his father, and mother, and sisters, were there, all new
to me.  When we reached Albion Place they were out;
we went after them, and found them on the pier:  Mrs. and
the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance.
I made my bow in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded
by men, attached myself to one of her daughters,
walked by her side all the way home, and made myself
as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy
in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen.
I had not a suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong.
They looked just the same:  both well-dressed, with veils
and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found
that I had been giving all my attention to the youngest,
who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended
the eldest.  Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed
for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never
forgiven me."

"That was bad indeed.  Poor Miss Sneyd.  Though I have no
younger sister, I feel for her.  To be neglected before
one's time must be very vexatious; but it was entirely
the mother's fault.  Miss Augusta should have been with
her governess.  Such half-and-half doings never prosper.
But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price.
Does she go to balls?  Does she dine out every where,
as well as at my sister's?"

"No," replied Edmund; "I do not think she has ever been
to a ball.  My mother seldom goes into company herself,
and dines nowhere but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at
home with _her_."

"Oh! then the point is clear.  Miss Price is not out."



CHAPTER VI

Mr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Crawford
was prepared to find a great chasm in their society,
and to miss him decidedly in the meetings which were now
becoming almost daily between the families; and on their
all dining together at the Park soon after his going,
she retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table,
fully expecting to feel a most melancholy difference in
the change of masters.  It would be a very flat business,
she was sure.  In comparison with his brother, Edmund would
have nothing to say.  The soup would be sent round in a
most spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles
or agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up without
supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch,
or a single entertaining story, about "my friend such a one."
She must try to find amusement in what was passing at the
upper end of the table, and in observing Mr. Rushworth,
who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for the first
time since the Crawfords' arrival.  He had been visiting
a friend in the neighbouring county, and that friend
having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject,
and very eager to be improving his own place in the same way;
and though not saying much to the purpose, could talk
of nothing else.  The subject had been already handled
in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour.
Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently
his chief aim; and though her deportment showed rather
conscious superiority than any solicitude to oblige him,
the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached
to it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented
her from being very ungracious.

"I wish you could see Compton," said he; "it is the most
complete thing!  I never saw a place so altered in my life.
I told Smith I did not know where I was.  The approach _now_,
is one of the finest things in the country:  you see the
house in the most surprising manner.  I declare, when I
got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison--
quite a dismal old prison."

"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris.  "A prison indeed?
Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."

"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything.  I never
saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life;
and it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done
with it."

"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,"
said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; "but depend
upon it, Sotherton will have _every_ improvement in time
which his heart can desire."

"I must try to do something with it," said Mr. Rushworth,
"but I do not know what.  I hope I shall have some good
friend to help me."

"Your best friend upon such an occasion," said Miss
Bertram calmly, "would be Mr. Repton, I imagine."

"That is what I was thinking of.  As he has done so
well by Smith, I think I had better have him at once.
His terms are five guineas a day."

"Well, and if they were _ten_," cried Mrs. Norris,
"I am sure _you_ need not regard it.  The expense need
not be any impediment.  If I were you, I should not
think of the expense.  I would have everything done
in the best style, and made as nice as possible.
Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves everything that
taste and money can do.  You have space to work upon there,
and grounds that will well reward you.  For my own part,
if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size
of Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving,
for naturally I am excessively fond of it.  It would be
too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now,
with my little half acre.  It would be quite a burlesque.
But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious delight
in improving and planting.  We did a vast deal in that way
at the Parsonage:  we made it quite a different place
from what it was when we first had it.  You young ones
do not remember much about it, perhaps; but if dear Sir
Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements
we made:  and a great deal more would have been done,
but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.  He could
hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_
disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas
and I used to talk of.  If it had not been for _that_,
we should have carried on the garden wall, and made the
plantation to shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant
has done.  We were always doing something as it was.
It was only the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's
death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,
which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting
to such perfection, sir," addressing herself then to
Dr. Grant.

"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam," replied Dr. Grant.
"The soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting
that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."

"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park,
and it cost us--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas,
but I saw the bill--and I know it cost seven shillings,
and was charged as a Moor Park."

"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant:
"these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park
apricot as the fruit from that tree.  It is an insipid
fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable,
which none from my garden are."

"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to
whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant
hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is:
he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it is so
valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is
such a remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early
tarts and preserves, my cook contrives to get them all."

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased;
and, for a little while, other subjects took place of the
improvements of Sotherton.  Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris
were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had begun
in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again.
"Smith's place is the admiration of all the country;
and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand.
I think I shall have Repton."

"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you,
I would have a very pretty shrubbery.  One likes to get
out into a shrubbery in fine weather."

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his
acquiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary;
but, between his submission to _her_ taste, and his having
always intended the same himself, with the superadded
objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies
in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom
he was anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was
glad to put an end to his speech by a proposal of wine.
Mr. Rushworth, however, though not usually a great talker,
had still more to say on the subject next his heart.
"Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether
in his grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more
surprising that the place can have been so improved.
Now, at Sotherton we have a good seven hundred,
without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think,
if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair.
There have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew
too near the house, and it opens the prospect amazingly,
which makes me think that Repton, or anybody of that sort,
would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down:  the avenue
that leads from the west front to the top of the hill,
you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke.
But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply--

"The avenue!  Oh!  I do not recollect it.  I really know
very little of Sotherton."

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund,
exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively
listening, now looked at him, and said in a low voice--

"Cut down an avenue!  What a pity!  Does it not make you
think of Cowper?  'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn
your fate unmerited.'"

He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands
a bad chance, Fanny."

"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down,
to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do
not suppose I shall."

"Have you never been there?  No, you never can;
and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride.
I wish we could contrive it."

"Oh! it does not signify.  Whenever I do see it,
you will tell me how it has been altered."

"I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton
is an old place, and a place of some grandeur.
In any particular style of building?"

"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large,
regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking,
and has many good rooms.  It is ill placed.  It stands
in one of the lowest spots of the park; in that respect,
unfavourable for improvement.  But the woods are fine,
and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made
a good deal of.  Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think,
in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no doubt
that it will be all done extremely well."

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself,
"He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it."

"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued;
"but, had I a place to new fashion, I should not put
myself into the hands of an improver.  I would rather
have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice,
and acquired progressively.  I would rather abide by my own
blunders than by his."

"_You_ would know what you were about, of course;
but that would not suit _me_.  I have no eye or
ingenuity for such matters, but as they are before me;
and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be
most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it,
and give me as much beauty as he could for my money;
and I should never look at it till it was complete."

"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress
of it all," said Fanny.

"Ay, you have been brought up to it.  It was no part of
my education; and the only dose I ever had, being administered
by not the first favourite in the world, has made me consider
improvements _in_ _hand_ as the greatest of nuisances.
Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncle, bought a
cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in;
and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures;
but it being excessively pretty, it was soon found
necessary to be improved, and for three months we were
all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to step on,
or a bench fit for use.  I would have everything as complete
as possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens,
and rustic seats innumerable:  but it must all be done
without my care.  Henry is different; he loves to be doing."

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much
disposed to admire, speak so freely of her uncle.
It did not suit his sense of propriety, and he was silenced,
till induced by further smiles and liveliness to put
the matter by for the present.

"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last.
I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it
has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn
assurances we have so often received to the contrary."
Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.  "The truth is,
that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,
we went ourselves:  this will not do seventy miles from London;
but this morning we heard of it in the right way.
It was seen by some farmer, and he told the miller,
and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's
son-in-law left word at the shop."

"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means,
and hope there will be no further delay."

"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it
is to be conveyed?  Not by a wagon or cart:  oh no!
nothing of that kind could be hired in the village.
I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow."

"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now,
in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse
and cart?"

"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it!
To want a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible,
so I told my maid to speak for one directly; and as I cannot
look out of my dressing-closet without seeing one farmyard,
nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another,
I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather
grieved that I could not give the advantage to all.
Guess my surprise, when I found that I had been asking
the most unreasonable, most impossible thing in the world;
had offended all the farmers, all the labourers,
all the hay in the parish!  As for Dr. Grant's bailiff,
I believe I had better keep out of _his_ way; and my
brother-in-law himself, who is all kindness in general,
looked rather black upon me when he found what I had
been at."

"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before;
but when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance
of getting in the grass.  The hire of a cart at any time
might not be so easy as you suppose:  our farmers are
not in the habit of letting them out; but, in harvest,
it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse."

"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down
with the true London maxim, that everything is to be
got with money, I was a little embarrassed at first
by the sturdy independence of your country customs.
However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry,
who is good-nature itself, has offered to fetch
it in his barouche.  Will it not be honourably conveyed?"

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument,
and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her.  Fanny had never
heard the harp at all, and wished for it very much.

"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss
Crawford; "at least as long as you can like to listen:
probably much longer, for I dearly love music myself,
and where the natural taste is equal the player must
always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways
than one.  Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother,
I entreat you to tell him that my harp is come:
he heard so much of my misery about it.  And you may say,
if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive
airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings,
as I know his horse will lose."

"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not,
at present, foresee any occasion for writing."

"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth,
would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could
be helped.  The occasion would never be foreseen.
What strange creatures brothers are!  You would not write
to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world;
and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse
is ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest
possible words.  You have but one style among you.
I know it perfectly.  Henry, who is in every other respect
exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me,
confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together,
has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often
it is nothing more than--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived.
Bath seems full, and everything as usual.  Yours sincerely.'
That is the true manly style; that is a complete
brother's letter."

"When they are at a distance from all their family,"
said Fanny, colouring for William's sake, "they can write
long letters."

"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund,
"whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think
you too severe upon us."

"At sea, has she?  In the king's service, of course?"

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story,
but his determined silence obliged her to relate her
brother's situation:  her voice was animated in speaking
of his profession, and the foreign stations he had been on;
but she could not mention the number of years that he
had been absent without tears in her eyes.  Miss Crawford
civilly wished him an early promotion.

"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund;
"Captain Marshall?  You have a large acquaintance in the navy,
I conclude?"

"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur,
"we know very little of the inferior ranks.  Post-captains may
be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to _us_.
Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal:
of them and their flags, and the gradation of their pay,
and their bickerings and jealousies.  But, in general,
I can assure you that they are all passed over, and all
very ill used.  Certainly, my home at my uncle's brought
me acquainted with a circle of admirals.  Of _Rears_ and
_Vices_ I saw enough.  Now do not be suspecting me of a pun,
I entreat."

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, "It is
a noble profession."

"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances:
if it make the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it;
but, in short, it is not a favourite profession of mine.
It has never worn an amiable form to _me_."

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy
in the prospect of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still
under consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could
not help addressing her brother, though it was calling
his attention from Miss Julia Bertram.

"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say?  You have been
an improver yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham,
it may vie with any place in England.  Its natural beauties,
I am sure, are great.  Everingham, as it _used_ to be,
was perfect in my estimation:  such a happy fall of ground,
and such timber!  What would I not give to see it again?"

"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your
opinion of it," was his answer; "but I fear there would
be some disappointment:  you would not find it equal
to your present ideas.  In extent, it is a mere nothing;
you would be surprised at its insignificance; and,
as for improvement, there was very little for me to do--
too little:  I should like to have been busy much longer."

"You are fond of the sort of thing?" said Julia.

"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of
the ground, which pointed out, even to a very young eye,
what little remained to be done, and my own consequent
resolutions, I had not been of age three months before
Everingham was all that it is now.  My plan was laid
at Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge,
and at one-and-twenty executed.  I am inclined to envy
Mr. Rushworth for having so much happiness yet before him.
I have been a devourer of my own."

"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly,"
said Julia.  "_You_ can never want employment.
Instead of envying Mr. Rushworth, you should assist
him with your opinion."

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech,
enforced it warmly, persuaded that no judgment could
be equal to her brother's; and as Miss Bertram caught
at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,
declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better
to consult with friends and disinterested advisers,
than immediately to throw the business into the hands of a
professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very ready to request
the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr. Crawford,
after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at
his service in any way that could be useful.  Mr. Rushworth
then began to propose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour
of coming over to Sotherton, and taking a bed there;
when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in her two nieces'
minds their little approbation of a plan which was to take
Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.

"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness;
but why should not more of us go?  Why should not we
make a little party?  Here are many that would be
interested in your improvements, my dear Mr. Rushworth,
and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on
the spot, and that might be of some small use to you with
_their_ opinions; and, for my own part, I have been long
wishing to wait upon your good mother again; nothing but
having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss;
but now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth,
while the rest of you walked about and settled things,
and then we could all return to a late dinner here,
or dine at Sotherton, just as might be most agreeable to
your mother, and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight.
I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me
in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know,
sister, and Fanny will stay at home with you."

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in
the going was forward in expressing their ready concurrence,
excepting Edmund, who heard it all and said nothing.



CHAPTER VII

"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?"
said Edmund the next day, after thinking some time on the
subject himself.  "How did you like her yesterday?"

"Very well--very much.  I like to hear her talk.
She entertains me; and she is so extremely pretty, that I
have great pleasure in looking at her."

"It is her countenance that is so attractive.  She has
a wonderful play of feature!  But was there nothing in her
conversation that struck you, Fanny, as not quite right?"

"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did.
I was quite astonished.  An uncle with whom she has been
living so many years, and who, whatever his faults may be,
is so very fond of her brother, treating him, they say,
quite like a son.  I could not have believed it!"

"I thought you would be struck.  It was very wrong;
very indecorous."

"And very ungrateful, I think."

"Ungrateful is a strong word.  I do not know that her uncle
has any claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had;
and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory
which misleads her here.  She is awkwardly circumstanced.
With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be
difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford,
without throwing a shade on the Admiral.  I do not pretend
to know which was most to blame in their disagreements,
though the Admiral's present conduct might incline one
to the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable
that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely.
I do not censure her _opinions_; but there certainly _is_
impropriety in making them public."

"Do not you think," said Fanny, after a little consideration,
"that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon
Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has been entirely brought
up by her?  She cannot have given her right notions
of what was due to the Admiral."

"That is a fair remark.  Yes, we must suppose the faults
of the niece to have been those of the aunt; and it makes
one more sensible of the disadvantages she has been under.
But I think her present home must do her good.
Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be.
She speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection."

"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters.
She made me almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly
the love or good-nature of a brother who will not give
himself the trouble of writing anything worth reading
to his sisters, when they are separated.  I am sure William
would never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances.
And what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write
long letters when you were absent?"

"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever
may contribute to its own amusement or that of others;
perfectly allowable, when untinctured by ill-humour
or roughness; and there is not a shadow of either in the
countenance or manner of Miss Crawford:  nothing sharp,
or loud, or coarse.  She is perfectly feminine, except in
the instances we have been speaking of.  There she cannot
be justified.  I am glad you saw it all as I did."

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a
good chance of her thinking like him; though at this period,
and on this subject, there began now to be some danger
of dissimilarity, for he was in a line of admiration
of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny could
not follow.  Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen.
The harp arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit,
and good-humour; for she played with the greatest obligingness,
with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming,
and there was something clever to be said at the close
of every air.  Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,
to be indulged with his favourite instrument:
one morning secured an invitation for the next;
for the lady could not be unwilling to have a listener,
and every thing was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as
elegant as herself, and both placed near a window,
cut down to the ground, and opening on a little lawn,
surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer,
was enough to catch any man's heart.  The season, the scene,
the air, were all favourable to tenderness and sentiment.
Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use:
it was all in harmony; and as everything will turn to account
when love is once set going, even the sandwich tray,
and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking at.
Without studying the business, however, or knowing
what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end
of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love;
and to the credit of the lady it may be added that,
without his being a man of the world or an elder brother,
without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of
small talk, he began to be agreeable to her.  She felt it
to be so, though she had not foreseen, and could hardly
understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule:
he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions
were unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple.
There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness,
his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal
to feel, though not equal to discuss with herself.
She did not think very much about it, however:  he pleased
her for the present; she liked to have him near her;
it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage
every morning; she would gladly have been there too,
might she have gone in uninvited and unnoticed, to hear
the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the evening
stroll was over, and the two families parted again,
he should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her
sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted
to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a very
bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine
and water for her, would rather go without it than not.
She was a little surprised that he could spend so many
hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort
of fault which he had already observed, and of which _she_
was almost always reminded by a something of the same
nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was.
Edmund was fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford,
but he seemed to think it enough that the Admiral had
since been spared; and she scrupled to point out her own
remarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature.
The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her
was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride,
which the former caught, soon after her being settled
at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the Park,
and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased,
led to his encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own
quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts, as the best
fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish.
No pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his
cousin in this offer:  _she_ was not to lose a day's exercise
by it.  The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage
half an hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny,
on its being first proposed, so far from feeling slighted,
was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should be
asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit
to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny.  Edmund,
who had taken down the mare and presided at the whole,
returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny
or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when
she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward.
The second day's trial was not so guiltless.  Miss Crawford's
enjoyment of riding was such that she did not know how to
leave off.  Active and fearless, and though rather small,
strongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to
the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was
probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructions,
and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing
her sex in general by her early progress, to make her
unwilling to dismount.  Fanny was ready and waiting,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone,
and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared.
To avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not
within sight of each other; but, by walking fifty yards
from the hall door, she could look down the park,
and command a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes,
gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's
meadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss
Crawford both on horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and
Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two or three grooms,
standing about and looking on.  A happy party it appeared
to her, all interested in one object:  cheerful beyond
a doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her.
It was a sound which did not make _her_ cheerful;
she wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt
a pang.  She could not turn her eyes from the meadow;
she could not help watching all that passed.  At first Miss
Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field,
which was not small, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_
apparent suggestion, they rose into a canter; and to Fanny's
timid nature it was most astonishing to see how well
she sat.  After a few minutes they stopped entirely.
Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her;
he was evidently directing her management of the bridle;
he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination
supplied what the eye could not reach.  She must not
wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that
Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his
good-nature by any one?  She could not but think, indeed,
that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him the trouble;
that it would have been particularly proper and becoming
in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford,
with all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship,
probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active
kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it
rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty;
if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little
tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse,
and Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund
on foot, pass through a gate into the lane, and so into
the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.
She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient;
and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid
the suspicion.

"My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as soon as she
was at all within hearing, "I am come to make my own
apologies for keeping you waiting; but I have nothing
in the world to say for myself--I knew it was very late,
and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore,
if you please, you must forgive me.  Selfishness must
always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope
of a cure."

Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added
his conviction that she could be in no hurry.  "For there
is more than time enough for my cousin to ride twice
as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you have been
promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off
half an hour sooner:  clouds are now coming up, and she
will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then.
I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so much exercise.
I wish you had saved yourself this walk home."

"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse,
I assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help;
"I am very strong.  Nothing ever fatigues me but doing
what I do not like.  Miss Price, I give way to you with
a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have
a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good
to hear of this dear, delightful, beautiful animal."

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his
own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers,
and they set off across another part of the park;
her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,
as she looked back, that the others were walking down
the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant
do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great
cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching
with an interest almost equal to her own.

"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart
for riding!" said he.  "I never see one sit a horse better.
She did not seem to have a thought of fear.  Very different
from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come
next Easter.  Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir
Thomas first had you put on!"

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated.
Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength
and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams;
her delight in riding was like their own; her early
excellence in it was like their own, and they had great
pleasure in praising it.

"I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has
the make for it.  Her figure is as neat as her brother's."

"Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she
has the same energy of character.  I cannot but think
that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind."

When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she
meant to ride the next day.

"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare," was her answer.

"I do not want her at all for myself," said he;
"but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home,
I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time--
for a whole morning, in short.  She has a great desire to get
as far as Mansfield Common:  Mrs. Grant has been telling
her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being
perfectly equal to it.  But any morning will do for this.
She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you.
It would be very wrong if she did.  _She_ rides only
for pleasure; _you_ for health."

"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny;
"I have been out very often lately, and would rather
stay at home.  You know I am strong enough now to walk
very well."

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort,
and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning:
the party included all the young people but herself,
and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed
again in the evening discussion.  A successful scheme
of this sort generally brings on another; and the having
been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going
somewhere else the day after.  There were many other
views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot,
there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go.
A young party is always provided with a shady lane.
Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner,
in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the
honours of its finest spots.  Everything answered;
it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying
inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure--
till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party
was exceedingly clouded.  Miss Bertram was the one.
Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage,
and _she_ was excluded.  It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant,
with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account,
who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt
as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely
taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.
As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased,
and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him;
she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin,
and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner
and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the
drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful,
the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies
sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes
from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even
Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour,
and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,
which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost
determined to say no more.  For a few minutes the brother
and sister were too eager in their praise of the night
and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves;
but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around,
said, "But where is Fanny?  Is she gone to bed?"

"No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was
here a moment ago."

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end
of the room, which was a very long one, told them
that she was on the sofa.  Mrs. Norris began scolding.

"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all
the evening upon a sofa.  Why cannot you come and sit here,
and employ yourself as _we_ do?  If you have no work
of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket.
There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,
not touched yet.  I am sure I almost broke my back
by cutting it out.  You should learn to think of
other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking
trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa."

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her
seat at the table, and had taken up her work again;
and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures
of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say,
ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody
in the house."

"Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively,
"I am sure you have the headache."

She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

"I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks
too well.  How long have you had it?"

"Since a little before dinner.  It is nothing but the heat."

"Did you go out in the heat?"

"Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris:
"would you have her stay within such a fine day as this?
Were not we _all_ out?  Even your mother was out to-day
for above an hour."

"Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been
thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand
to Fanny; "I was out above an hour.  I sat three-quarters
of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses;
and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot.
It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite
dreaded the coming home again."

"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?"

"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year.
Poor thing!  _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so
full-blown that one could not wait."

"There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris,
in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her
headache might not be caught _then_, sister.  There is
nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping
in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow.
Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always
forget to have mine filled."

"She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever
since she came back from your house the second time."

"What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as
cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house,
and doing it twice, ma'am?  No wonder her head aches."

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.

"I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram;
"but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished
to have them, and then you know they must be taken home."

"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?"

"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry;
and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room
and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again."

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could
nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny?  Upon my word,
ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business."

"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,"
cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; "unless I had
gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once;
and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about
your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire, and had promised
John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour.
I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon
any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once.
And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me--
it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot think I
was unreasonable to ask it.  How often do I pace it three
times a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too,
and say nothing about it?"

"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."

"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would
not be knocked up so soon.  She has not been out on
horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that,
when she does not ride, she ought to walk.  If she had
been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.
But I thought it would rather do her good after being
stooping among the roses; for there is nothing so
refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind;
and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.
Between ourselves, Edmund," nodding significantly at
his mother, "it was cutting the roses, and dawdling
about in the flower-garden, that did the mischief."

"I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid
Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; "I am very much afraid
she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough
to kill anybody.  It was as much as I could bear myself.
Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from
the flower-beds, was almost too much for me."

Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly
to another table, on which the supper-tray yet remained,
brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink
the greater part.  She wished to be able to decline it;
but the tears, which a variety of feelings created,
made it easier to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still
more angry with himself.  His own forgetfulness of her was
worse than anything which they had done.  Nothing of this
would have happened had she been properly considered;
but she had been left four days together without any choice
of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for
avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require.
He was ashamed to think that for four days together she had
not had the power of riding, and very seriously resolved,
however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of Miss
Crawford's, that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first
evening of her arrival at the Park.  The state of her
spirits had probably had its share in her indisposition;
for she had been feeling neglected, and been struggling
against discontent and envy for some days past.
As she leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated
that she might not be seen, the pain of her mind
had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden
change which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned,
made her hardly know how to support herself.



CHAPTER VIII

Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it
was a pleasant fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the
weather had lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses,
both of health and pleasure, would be soon made good.
While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother,
who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially,
in urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton,
which had been started a fortnight before, and which,
in consequence of her subsequent absence from home,
had since lain dormant.  Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all
well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named
and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged:
the young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though
Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for his being so,
they would neither authorise the liberty nor run the risk;
and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth
discovered that the properest thing to be done was for
him to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on
Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him
or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in.
Having been out some time, and taken a different route
to the house, they had not met him.  Comfortable hopes,
however, were given that he would find Mr. Crawford
at home.  The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course.
It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should
be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it;
and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing,
pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it
related to her own and her son's concerns, had not yet
given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party.
Lady Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner
of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished
to come, till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder
tone convinced her of the truth.

"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great
deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth.
Ten miles there, and ten back, you know.  You must
excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our
two dear girls and myself without her.  Sotherton is
the only place that could give her a _wish_ to go so far,
but it cannot be, indeed.  She will have a companion
in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well;
and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself,
I will answer for his being most happy to join the party.
He can go on horseback, you know."

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's
staying at home, could only be sorry.  "The loss of her
ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she
should have been extremely happy to have seen the young
lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet,
and it was a pity she should not see the place."

"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,"
cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have
opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton.  She has
time enough before her; and her going now is quite out
of the question.  Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her."

"Oh no!  I cannot do without Fanny."

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that
everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include
Miss Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant,
who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth,
on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it
on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure
for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded,
was not long in accepting her share of the civility.
Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful;
and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what
had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth
to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two
other ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris
trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's
being of the party were desirable or not, or whether
her brother's barouche would not be full without her.
The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her
that the barouche would hold four perfectly well,
independent of the box, on which _one_ might go with him.

"But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage,
or his _only_, should be employed?  Why is no use to be
made of my mother's chaise?  I could not, when the scheme
was first mentioned the other day, understand why a visit
from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family."

"What!" cried Julia:  "go boxed up three in a postchaise
in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche!
No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do."

"Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends
upon taking us.  After what passed at first, he would
claim it as a promise."

"And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_
carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing;
and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the
roads between this and Sotherton:  he always complains
bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage,
and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,
when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off."

"That would not be a very handsome reason for using
Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox
is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive.
I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience
from narrow roads on Wednesday."

"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"
said Edmund, "in going on the barouche box."

"Unpleasant!" cried Maria:  "oh dear!  I believe it would
be generally thought the favourite seat.  There can
be no comparison as to one's view of the country.
Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself."

"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you;
there can be no doubt of your having room for her."

"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is
no idea of her going with us.  She stays with her aunt.
I told Mrs. Rushworth so.  She is not expected."

"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he,
addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_
to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself,
to your own comfort.  If you could do without her,
you would not wish to keep her at home?"

"To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her."

"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do."

There was a general cry out at this.  "Yes," he continued,
"there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay
at home.  Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton.
I know she wishes it very much.  She has not often a
gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would
be glad to give her the pleasure now?"

"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection."

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which
could remain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth
that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance
there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed
to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over.
It must have the strangest appearance!  It would be
something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect
for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern
of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not
feel equal to it.  Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny,
and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time;
but her opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from
partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own,
than from anything else.  She felt that she had arranged
everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be
for the worse.  When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply,
as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she
need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account,
because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with
her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one
who would probably be of the party, and had directly
received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin,
Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with a very
good grace, and would only say, "Very well, very well,
just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I
do not care about it."

"It seems very odd," said Maria, "that you should be
staying at home instead of Fanny."

"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,"
added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke,
from a consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at
home herself.

"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,"
was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact,
much greater than her pleasure.  She felt Edmund's kindness
with all, and more than all, the sensibility which he,
unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of;
but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave
her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would
be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced
another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted
with general approbation.  Mrs. Grant offered herself as
companion for the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son,
and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner.  Lady Bertram
was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies
were in spirits again.  Even Edmund was very thankful for an
arrangement which restored him to his share of the party;
and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it
at her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it,
when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche
arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody
was ready, there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant
to alight and the others to take their places.  The place
of all places, the envied seat, the post of honour,
was unappropriated.  To whose happy lot was it to fall?
While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best,
and with the most appearance of obliging the others,
to secure it, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying,
as she stepped from the carriage, "As there are five
of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry;
and as you were saying lately that you wished you
could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity
for you to take a lesson."

Happy Julia!  Unhappy Maria!  The former was on the
barouche-box in a moment, the latter took her seat within,
in gloom and mortification; and the carriage drove
off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies,
and the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny,
whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond
her knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that
was new, and admiring all that was pretty.  She was not
often invited to join in the conversation of the others,
nor did she desire it.  Her own thoughts and reflections
were habitually her best companions; and, in observing
the appearance of the country, the bearings of the roads,
the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages,
the cattle, the children, she found entertainment
that could only have been heightened by having Edmund
to speak to of what she felt.  That was the only point
of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her:
in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was
very unlike her.  She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste,
of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature,
with little observation; her attention was all for men
and women, her talents for the light and lively.
In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was
any stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on
them in ascending a considerable hill, they were united,
and a "there he is" broke at the same moment from them both,
more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little
real comfort:  her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford
and her sister sitting side by side, full of conversation
and merriment; and to see only his expressive profile
as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh
of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation,
which her own sense of propriety could but just smooth over.
When Julia looked back, it was with a countenance of delight,
and whenever she spoke to them, it was in the highest spirits:
"her view of the country was charming, she wished they
could all see it," etc.; but her only offer of exchange
was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit
of a long hill, and was not more inviting than this:
"Here is a fine burst of country.  I wish you had my seat,
but I dare say you will not take it, let me press you ever
so much;" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they
were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations,
it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have
two strings to her bow.  She had Rushworth feelings,
and Crawford feelings, and in the vicinity of Sotherton
the former had considerable effect.  Mr. Rushworth's
consequence was hers.  She could not tell Miss Crawford
that "those woods belonged to Sotherton," she could not
carelessly observe that "she believed that it was now
all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the road,"
without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to increase
with their approach to the capital freehold mansion,
and ancient manorial residence of the family, with all
its rights of court-leet and court-baron.

"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford;
our difficulties are over.  The rest of the way is such
as it ought to be.  Mr. Rushworth has made it since he
succeeded to the estate.  Here begins the village.
Those cottages are really a disgrace.  The church spire
is reckoned remarkably handsome.  I am glad the church
is not so close to the great house as often happens in
old places.  The annoyance of the bells must be terrible.
There is the parsonage:  a tidy-looking house, and I
understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people.
Those are almshouses, built by some of the family.
To the right is the steward's house; he is a very
respectable man.  Now we are coming to the lodge-gates;
but we have nearly a mile through the park still.
It is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some
fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful.
We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity,
for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a
better approach."

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed
Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour
to promote her enjoyment to the utmost.  Mrs. Norris was
all delight and volubility; and even Fanny had something
to say in admiration, and might be heard with complacency.
Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach;
and after being at some pains to get a view of the house,
and observing that "it was a sort of building which she
could not look at but with respect," she added, "Now, where
is the avenue?  The house fronts the east, I perceive.
The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it.
Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front."

"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little
distance, and ascends for half a mile to the extremity
of the grounds.  You may see something of it here--
something of the more distant trees.  It is oak entirely."

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information
of what she had known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth
had asked her opinion; and her spirits were in as happy
a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish, when they drove
up to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.



CHAPTER IX

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady;
and the whole party were welcomed by him with due attention.
In the drawing-room they were met with equal cordiality
by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction
with each that she could wish.  After the business
of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat,
and the doors were thrown open to admit them through one
or two intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour,
where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance.
Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well.
The particular object of the day was then considered.
How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse,
to take a survey of the grounds?  Mr. Rushworth mentioned
his curricle.  Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirableness
of some carriage which might convey more than two.
"To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes
and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss
of present pleasure."

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also;
but this was scarcely received as an amendment:  the young
ladies neither smiled nor spoke.  Her next proposition,
of shewing the house to such of them as had not been
there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad
to be doing something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's
guidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty,
and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty
years back, with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich damask,
marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its way.
Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good,
but the larger part were family portraits, no longer
anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at
great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach,
and was now almost equally well qualified to shew the house.
On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly
to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison
in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford,
who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for none
of them, had only the appearance of civilly listening,
while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting
as it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all
that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times,
its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,
delighted to connect anything with history already known,
or warm her imagination with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility
of much prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fanny
and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth,
Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head
at the windows.  Every room on the west front looked
across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately
beyond tall iron palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be
of any other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and
find employment for housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth,
"we are coming to the chapel, which properly we ought
to enter from above, and look down upon; but as we
are quite among friends, I will take you in this way,
if you will excuse me."

They entered.  Fanny's imagination had prepared her
for something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room,
fitted up for the purpose of devotion:  with nothing more
striking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany,
and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge
of the family gallery above.  "I am disappointed,"
said she, in a low voice, to Edmund.  "This is not
my idea of a chapel.  There is nothing awful here,
nothing melancholy, nothing grand.  Here are no aisles,
no arches, no inscriptions, no banners.  No banners,
cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.'
No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'"

"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built,
and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old
chapels of castles and monasteries.  It was only for
the private use of the family.  They have been buried,
I suppose, in the parish church.  _There_ you must look
for the banners and the achievements."

"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I
am disappointed."

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation.  "This chapel was fitted up
as you see it, in James the Second's time.  Before that period,
as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there
is some reason to think that the linings and cushions
of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth;
but this is not quite certain.  It is a handsome chapel,
and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.
Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain,
within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left
it off."

"Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford,
with a smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford;
and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster
together.

"It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have
been discontinued.  It was a valuable part of former times.
There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much
in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what
such a household should be!  A whole family assembling
regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!"

"Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing.  "It must
do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force
all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business
and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day,
while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying
away."

"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,"
said Edmund.  "If the master and mistress do _not_
attend themselves, there must be more harm than good
in the custom."

"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own
devices on such subjects.  Everybody likes to go their
own way--to chuse their own time and manner of devotion.
The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint,
the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing,
and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used
to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen
that the time would ever come when men and women might lie
another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache,
without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed,
they would have jumped with joy and envy.  Cannot you
imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles
of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to
this chapel?  The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--
starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full
of something very different--especially if the poor
chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days,
I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they
are now."

For a few moments she was unanswered.  Fanny coloured
and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech;
and he needed a little recollection before he could say,
"Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects.
You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature
cannot say it was not so.  We must all feel _at_ _times_
the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish;
but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say,
a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could
be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons?
Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are
indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected
in a closet?"

"Yes, very likely.  They would have two chances at least
in their favour.  There would be less to distract the
attention from without, and it would not be tried so long."

"The mind which does not struggle against itself under
_one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it
in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place
and of example may often rouse better feelings than are
begun with.  The greater length of the service, however,
I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind.
One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left
Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are."

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered
about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to
her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria,
standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were
going to be performed.  Have not they completely the air of it?"

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward
to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear,
"I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two,
but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh,
and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give
her away?"

"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply,
with a look of meaning.

Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.

"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not
take place directly, if we had but a proper licence,
for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world
could be more snug and pleasant."  And she talked and
laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the
comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose
her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover,
while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity
of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place.

"If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running
to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny:
"My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might
perform the ceremony directly.  How unlucky that you
are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready."

Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have
amused a disinterested observer.  She looked almost aghast
under the new idea she was receiving.  Fanny pitied her.
"How distressed she will be at what she said just now,"
passed across her mind.

"Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be
a clergyman?"

"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--
probably at Christmas."

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering
her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before,
I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect,"
and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness
which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year.
Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way,
and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn,
and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have
proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken
them through all the rooms above, if her son had not
interposed with a doubt of there being time enough.
"For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition
which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are
_too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time
for what is to be done out of doors.  It is past two,
and we are to dine at five."

Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying
the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more
fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange
by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done,
when the young people, meeting with an outward door,
temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately
to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

"Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth,
civilly taking the hint and following them.  "Here are the
greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants."

"Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him,
"whether we may not find something to employ us here
before we go farther?  I see walls of great promise.
Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?"

"James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe
the wilderness will be new to all the party.  The Miss
Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet."

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed
no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance.
All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants,
and all dispersed about in happy independence.
Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine
the capabilities of that end of the house.  The lawn,
bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond
the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond
the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron
palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops
of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining.
It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon
followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,
after a little time, the others began to form into parties,
these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace
by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally
to unite, and who, after a short participation of their
regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on.
The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris,
and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy
star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side
of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that
lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with
the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants,
was lingering behind in gossip with her.  Poor Julia,
the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied
with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance,
and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box
as could well be imagined.  The politeness which she had
been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible
for her to escape; while the want of that higher species
of self-command, that just consideration of others,
that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right,
which had not formed any essential part of her education,
made her miserable under it.

"This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they
had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing
a second time to the door in the middle which opened to
the wilderness.  "Shall any of us object to being comfortable?
Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.
What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of
course it is; for in these great places the gardeners
are the only people who can go where they like."

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were
all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving
the unmitigated glare of day behind.  A considerable
flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was
a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly
of larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid
out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade,
and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-green
and the terrace.  They all felt the refreshment of it,
and for some time could only walk and admire.  At length,
after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, "So you
are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram.  This is rather
a surprise to me."

"Why should it surprise you?  You must suppose me designed
for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither
a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor."

"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me.
And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather
to leave a fortune to the second son."

"A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund,
"but not quite universal.  I am one of the exceptions,
and _being_ one, must do something for myself."

"But why are you to be a clergyman?  I thought _that_
was always the lot of the youngest, where there were
many to chuse before him."

"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?"

"_Never_ is a black word.  But yes, in the _never_
of conversation, which means _not_ _very_ _often_,
I do think it.  For what is to be done in the church?
Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other
lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church.
A clergyman is nothing."

"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope,
as well as the _never_.  A clergyman cannot be high in
state or fashion.  He must not head mobs, or set the ton
in dress.  But I cannot call that situation nothing which
has the charge of all that is of the first importance
to mankind, individually or collectively considered,
temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship
of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners
which result from their influence.  No one here can call
the _office_ nothing.  If the man who holds it is so,
it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its
just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear
what he ought not to appear."

"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one
has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend.
One does not see much of this influence and importance
in society, and how can it be acquired where they are
so seldom seen themselves?  How can two sermons a week,
even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher
to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all
that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the
manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week?
One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."

"_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the
nation at large."

"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample
of the rest."

"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice
throughout the kingdom.  We do not look in great cities
for our best morality.  It is not there that respectable
people of any denomination can do most good; and it
certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can
be most felt.  A fine preacher is followed and admired;
but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman
will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood,
where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable
of knowing his private character, and observing his
general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case.
The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners.
They are known to the largest part only as preachers.
And with regard to their influencing public manners,
Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean
to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators
of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies
of life.  The _manners_ I speak of might rather be
called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles;
the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it
is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will,
I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are,
or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of
the nation."

"Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

"There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced
Miss Price already."

"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."

"I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile;
"I am just as much surprised now as I was at first
that you should intend to take orders.  You really are
fit for something better.  Come, do change your mind.
It is not too late.  Go into the law."

"Go into the law!  With as much ease as I was told to go
into this wilderness."

"Now you are going to say something about law being
the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you;
remember, I have forestalled you."

"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent
my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in
my nature.  I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being,
and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half
an hour together without striking it out."

A general silence succeeded.  Each was thoughtful.
Fanny made the first interruption by saying, "I wonder
that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood;
but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable
to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while."

"My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm
within his, "how thoughtless I have been!  I hope you
are not very tired.  Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford,
"my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm."

"Thank you, but I am not at all tired."  She took it,
however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having
her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time,
made him a little forgetful of Fanny.  "You scarcely
touch me," said he.  "You do not make me of any use.
What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from
that of a man!  At Oxford I have been a good deal used
to have a man lean on me for the length of a street,
and you are only a fly in the comparison."

"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at;
for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood.
Do not you think we have?"

"Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet
so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time,
with feminine lawlessness.

"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about.
We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood
itself must be half a mile long in a straight line,
for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left
the first great path."

"But if you remember, before we left that first great path,
we saw directly to the end of it.  We looked down the
whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it
could not have been more than a furlong in length."

"Oh!  I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure
it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding
in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore,
when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak
within compass."

"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,"
said Edmund, taking out his watch.  "Do you think we
are walking four miles an hour?"

"Oh! do not attack me with your watch.  A watch is always
too fast or too slow.  I cannot be dictated to by a watch."

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the
very walk they had been talking of; and standing back,
well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into
the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they
all sat down.

"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund,
observing her; "why would not you speak sooner?  This will be
a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up.
Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford,
except riding."

"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse
as I did all last week!  I am ashamed of you and of myself,
but it shall never happen again."

"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more
sensible of my own neglect.  Fanny's interest seems
in safer hands with you than with me."

"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise;
for there is nothing in the course of one's duties
so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning:
seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another,
straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for.
It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world,
and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not
know it."

"I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit
in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure,
is the most perfect refreshment."

After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again.
"I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me.
I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary.  I must
go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
without being able to see it so well."

Edmund left the seat likewise.  "Now, Miss Crawford,
if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself
that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile."

"It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_
with a glance."

He still reasoned with her, but in vain.  She would
not calculate, she would not compare.  She would only
smile and assert.  The greatest degree of rational
consistency could not have been more engaging, and they
talked with mutual satisfaction.  At last it was agreed
that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions
of the wood by walking a little more about it.  They would
go to one end of it, in the line they were then in--
for there was a straight green walk along the bottom
by the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way
in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them,
and be back in a few minutes.  Fanny said she was rested,
and would have moved too, but this was not suffered.
Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an
earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left
on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care,
but with great regret that she was not stronger.
She watched them till they had turned the corner,
and listened till all sound of them had ceased.



CHAPTER X

A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away,
and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford,
and herself, without interruption from any one.  She began
to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen
with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their
voices again.  She listened, and at length she heard;
she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just
satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted,
when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued
from the same path which she had trod herself, and were
before her.

"Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?"
were the first salutations.  She told her story.
"Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, "how ill you have been
used by them!  You had better have staid with us."

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side,
she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before,
and discussed the possibility of improvements with
much animation.  Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford
was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking,
whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,
and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business
seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked
an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they
had seen his friend Smith's place.

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram,
observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing
through it into the park, that their views and their
plans might be more comprehensive.  It was the very thing
of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was
the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry
Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half
a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite
command of the house.  Go therefore they must to that knoll,
and through that gate; but the gate was locked.
Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been
very near thinking whether he should not bring the key;
he was determined he would never come without the key again;
but still this did not remove the present evil.  They could
not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so
doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's
declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key.
He set off accordingly.

"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we
are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford,
when he was gone.

"Yes, there is nothing else to be done.  But now, sincerely,
do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?"

"No, indeed, far otherwise.  I find it better, grander, more
complete in its style, though that style may not be the best.
And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not
think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much
pleasure as I do now.  Another summer will hardly improve it to
me."

After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are
too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes
of the world.  If other people think Sotherton improved,
I have no doubt that you will."

"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world
as might be good for me in some points.  My feelings
are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past
under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case
with men of the world."

This was followed by a short silence.  Miss Bertram
began again.  "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much
this morning.  I was glad to see you so well entertained.
You and Julia were laughing the whole way."

"Were we?  Yes, I believe we were; but I have not
the least recollection at what.  Oh!  I believe
I was relating to her some ridiculous stories
of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh."

"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"

"More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know,"
smiling, "better company.  I could not have hoped
to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."

"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I
have more to think of now."

"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in
which very high spirits would denote insensibility.
Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want
of spirits.  You have a very smiling scene before you."

"Do you mean literally or figuratively?  Literally,
I conclude.  Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park
looks very cheerful.  But unluckily that iron gate,
that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship.
'I cannot get out,' as the starling said."  As she spoke,
and it was with expression, she walked to the gate:
he followed her.  "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching
this key!"

"And for the world you would not get out without the key
and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection,
or I think you might with little difficulty pass round
the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it
might be done, if you really wished to be more at large,
and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited."

"Prohibited! nonsense!  I certainly can get out that way,
and I will.  Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment,
you know; we shall not be out of sight."

"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him
that he will find us near that knoll:  the grove of oak
on the knoll."

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help
making an effort to prevent it.  "You will hurt yourself,
Miss Bertram," she cried; "you will certainly hurt
yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown;
you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had
better not go."

Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words
were spoken, and, smiling with all the good-humour
of success, she said, "Thank you, my dear Fanny,
but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye."

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase
of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all
that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram,
and angry with Mr. Crawford.  By taking a circuitous
route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable
direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye;
and for some minutes longer she remained without sight
or sound of any companion.  She seemed to have the little
wood all to herself.  She could almost have thought
that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that
it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:
somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk.
She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who,
hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment,
cried out on seeing her, "Heyday!  Where are the others?
I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."

Fanny explained.

"A pretty trick, upon my word!  I cannot see them anywhere,"
looking eagerly into the park.  "But they cannot be very
far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria,
even without help."

"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment
with the key.  Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."

"Not I, indeed.  I have had enough of the family for
one morning.  Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from
his horrible mother.  Such a penance as I have been enduring,
while you were sitting here so composed and so happy!
It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in
my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow
for it, and let it pass:  Julia was vexed, and her
temper was hasty; but she felt that it would not last,
and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she
had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

"Yes, yes, we saw him.  He was posting away as if upon
life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us
his errand, and where you all were."

"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."

"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern.  I am not obliged
to punish myself for _her_ sins.  The mother I could
not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about
with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away from."

And she immediately scrambled across the fence,
and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of
whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund.
The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing
Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their
continued absence, however, as she might have done.
She felt that he had been very ill-used, and was quite
unhappy in having to communicate what had passed.
He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit;
and though she made the best of the story, he was evidently
mortified and displeased in no common degree.  At first
he scarcely said anything; his looks only expressed his
extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate
and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.

"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say
that you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts."

"I do not believe I shall go any farther," said he sullenly;
"I see nothing of them.  By the time I get to the knoll they
may be gone somewhere else.  I have had walking enough."

And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.

"I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky."  And she
longed to be able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well
have staid for me," said he.

"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."

"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid."

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced.
After another pause, he went on--"Pray, Miss Price,
are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some
people are?  For my part, I can see nothing in him."

"I do not think him at all handsome."

"Handsome!  Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome.
He is not five foot nine.  I should not wonder if he is not more
than five foot eight.  I think he is an ill-looking fellow.
In my opinion, these Crawfords are no addition at all.
We did very well without them."

A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know
how to contradict him.

"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key,
there might have been some excuse, but I went the very
moment she said she wanted it."

"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure,
and I dare say you walked as fast as you could; but still
it is some distance, you know, from this spot to the house,
quite into the house; and when people are waiting,
they are bad judges of time, and every half minute seems
like five."

He got up and walked to the gate again, and "wished he
had had the key about him at the time."  Fanny thought she
discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting,
which encouraged her to another attempt, and she said,
therefore, "It is a pity you should not join them.
They expected to have a better view of the house from
that part of the park, and will be thinking how it
may be improved; and nothing of that sort, you know,
can be settled without you."

She found herself more successful in sending away than
in retaining a companion.  Mr. Rushworth was worked on.
"Well," said he, "if you really think I had better go:
it would be foolish to bring the key for nothing."
And letting himself out, he walked off without farther
ceremony.

Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who
had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient,
she resolved to go in search of them.  She followed
their steps along the bottom walk, and had just turned
up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss
Crawford once more caught her ear; the sound approached,
and a few more windings brought them before her.
They were just returned into the wilderness from the park,
to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very
soon after their leaving her, and they had been across
a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny
had been hoping the whole morning to reach at last,
and had been sitting down under one of the trees.
This was their history.  It was evident that they had been
spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the
length of their absence.  Fanny's best consolation was
in being assured that Edmund had wished for her very much,
and that he should certainly have come back for her,
had she not been tired already; but this was not quite
sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left
a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few minutes,
nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know
what they had been conversing about all that time;
and the result of the whole was to her disappointment
and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to
return to the house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace,
Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves
at the top, just ready for the wilderness, at the end
of an hour and a half from their leaving the house.
Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster.
Whatever cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures
of her nieces, she had found a morning of complete enjoyment;
for the housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on
the subject of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy,
told her all about their cows, and given her the receipt
for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving them
they had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made
a most satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him
right as to his grandson's illness, convinced him that it
was an ague, and promised him a charm for it; and he,
in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants,
and actually presented her with a very curious specimen
of heath.

On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together,
there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas,
and chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return
of the others, and the arrival of dinner.  It was late
before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in,
and their ramble did not appear to have been more than
partially agreeable, or at all productive of anything
useful with regard to the object of the day.  By their
own accounts they had been all walking after each other,
and the junction which had taken place at last seemed,
to Fanny's observation, to have been as much too late
for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had
been for determining on any alteration.  She felt,
as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth, that hers
was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them:
there was gloom on the face of each.  Mr. Crawford
and Miss Bertram were much more gay, and she thought
that he was taking particular pains, during dinner,
to do away any little resentment of the other two,
and restore general good-humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles'
drive home allowed no waste of hours; and from the time
of their sitting down to table, it was a quick succession
of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door,
and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a
few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper,
and made abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth,
was ready to lead the way.  At the same moment Mr. Crawford,
approaching Julia, said, "I hope I am not to lose
my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air
in so exposed a seat."  The request had not been foreseen,
but was very graciously received, and Julia's day was
likely to end almost as well as it began.  Miss Bertram
had made up her mind to something different, and was a
little disappointed; but her conviction of being really
the one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her
to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought.
He was certainly better pleased to hand her into
the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box,
and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,"
said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park.
"Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end!  I am sure
you ought to be very much obliged to your aunt Bertram
and me for contriving to let you go.  A pretty good day's
amusement you have had!"

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, "I think
_you_ have done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems
full of good things, and here is a basket of something
between us which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully."

"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath,
which that nice old gardener would make me take; but if
it is in your way, I will have it in my lap directly.
There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me;
take great care of it:  do not let it fall; it is a
cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner.
Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whitaker,
but my taking one of the cheeses.  I stood out as long
as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes,
and I knew it was just the sort that my sister would
be delighted with.  That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure!
She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed
at the second table, and she has turned away two housemaids
for wearing white gowns.  Take care of the cheese, Fanny.
Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well."

"What else have you been spunging?" said Maria,
half-pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.

"Spunging, my dear!  It is nothing but four of those
beautiful pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would
quite force upon me:  she would not take a denial.
She said it must be such an amusement to me, as she
understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living
creatures of that sort; and so to be sure it will.
I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the first
spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved
to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great
delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them.
And if I have good luck, your mother shall have some."

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the
drive was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature
could make it; but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking,
it was altogether a silent drive to those within.
Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine
whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain,
might occupy the meditations of almost all.



CHAPTER XI

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections,
afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings
than were derived from the letters from Antigua,
which soon afterwards reached Mansfield.  It was much
pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father;
and to think of their father in England again within
a certain period, which these letters obliged them to do,
was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return.
Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as experience
and anxiety could authorise.  His business was so nearly
concluded as to justify him in proposing to take his
passage in the September packet, and he consequently
looked forward with the hope of being with his beloved
family again early in November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the
father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most
solicitous for her happiness would unite her to the lover,
on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend.
It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to
throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared
away she should see something else.  It would hardly
be _early_ in November, there were generally delays,
a bad passage or _something_; that favouring _something_
which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look,
or their understandings while they reason, feels the
comfort of.  It would probably be the middle of November
at least; the middle of November was three months off.
Three months comprised thirteen weeks.  Much might happen
in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion
of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his return,
and would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the
interest it excited in the breast of another young lady.
Miss Crawford, on walking up with her brother to spend
the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news;
and though seeming to have no concern in the affair
beyond politeness, and to have vented all her feelings
in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an attention
not so easily satisfied.  Mrs. Norris gave the particulars
of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea,
as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with
Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene,
while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth, and Henry Crawford
were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she suddenly
revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying,
"How happy Mr. Rushworth looks!  He is thinking of November."

Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing
to say.

"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."

"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence
not only long, but including so many dangers."

"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events:
your sister's marriage, and your taking orders."

"Yes."

"Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does
put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who,
after performing great exploits in a foreign land,
offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."

"There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund,
with a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again;
"it is entirely her own doing."

"Oh yes I know it is.  I was merely joking.  She has
done no more than what every young woman would do;
and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy.
My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand."

"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary
as Maria's marrying."

"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's
convenience should accord so well.  There is a very good
living kept for you, I understand, hereabouts."

"Which you suppose has biassed me?"

"But _that_ I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.

"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than
I would affirm myself.  On the contrary, the knowing
that there was such a provision for me probably did
bias me.  Nor can I think it wrong that it should.
There was no natural disinclination to be overcome,
and I see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman
for knowing that he will have a competence early in life.
I was in safe hands.  I hope I should not have been
influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father
was too conscientious to have allowed it.  I have no doubt
that I was biased, but I think it was blamelessly."

"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a
short pause, "as for the son of an admiral to go into
the navy, or the son of a general to be in the army,
and nobody sees anything wrong in that.  Nobody wonders
that they should prefer the line where their friends can
serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest
in it than they appear."

"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good.  The profession,
either navy or army, is its own justification.  It has
everything in its favour:  heroism, danger, bustle, fashion.
Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society.
Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors."

"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty
of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?"
said Edmund.  "To be justified in your eyes, he must
do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision."

"What! take orders without a living!  No; that is
madness indeed; absolute madness."

"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man
is neither to take orders with a living nor without?
No; for you certainly would not know what to say.
But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from
your own argument.  As he cannot be influenced by those
feelings which you rank highly as temptation and reward
to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession,
as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are all against him,
he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his."

"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income
ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and has
the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his
days but eat, drink, and grow fat.  It is indolence,
Mr. Bertram, indeed.  Indolence and love of ease; a want
of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company,
or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable,
which make men clergymen.  A clergyman has nothing
to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the newspaper,
watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife.  His curate
does all the work, and the business of his own life is
to dine."

"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they
are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming
it their general character.  I suspect that in this
comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure, you are
not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons,
whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing.
It is impossible that your own observation can have given
you much knowledge of the clergy.  You can have been
personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you
condemn so conclusively.  You are speaking what you have
been told at your uncle's table."

"I speak what appears to me the general opinion;
and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct.
Though _I_ have not seen much of the domestic lives
of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any deficiency
of information."

"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination,
are condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency
of information, or (smiling) of something else.
Your uncle, and his brother admirals, perhaps knew little
of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad,
they were always wishing away."

"Poor William!  He has met with great kindness from
the chaplain of the Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe
of Fanny's, very much to the purpose of her own feelings
if not of the conversation.

"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from
my uncle," said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly suppose--
and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am
not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are,
being at this present time the guest of my own brother,
Dr. Grant.  And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging
to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say,
a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons,
and is very respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent,
selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have his palate consulted
in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience
of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder,
is out of humour with his excellent wife.  To own the truth,
Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening
by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could
not get the better of.  My poor sister was forced to stay
and bear it."

"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word.
It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty
habit of self-indulgence; and to see your sister suffering
from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings
as yours.  Fanny, it goes against us.  We cannot attempt
to defend Dr. Grant."

"No," replied Fanny, "but we need not give up his profession
for all that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant
had chosen, he would have taken a--not a good temper into it;
and as he must, either in the navy or army, have had a
great many more people under his command than he has now,
I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a
sailor or soldier than as a clergyman.  Besides, I cannot
but suppose that whatever there may be to wish otherwise
in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of
becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession,
where he would have had less time and obligation--
where he might have escaped that knowledge of himself,
the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge which it
is impossible he should escape as he is now.  A man--
a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit
of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go
to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good
sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being
the better for it himself.  It must make him think;
and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain
himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman."

"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish
you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man
whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for though
he may preach himself into a good-humour every Sunday,
it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about green
geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."

"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,"
said Edmund affectionately, "must be beyond the reach
of any sermons."

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss
Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner,
"I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve
praise than to hear it"; when, being earnestly invited
by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off
to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her
in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues,
from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.

"There goes good-humour, I am sure," said he presently.
"There goes a temper which would never give pain!
How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the
inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked.
What a pity," he added, after an instant's reflection,
"that she should have been in such hands!"

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue
at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee;
and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the
scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing,
and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night,
and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods.  Fanny spoke
her feelings.  "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose!
Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind,
and what poetry only can attempt to describe!  Here's what
may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture!
When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there
could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;
and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity
of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried
more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."

"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny.  It is a lovely night,
and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught
to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not,
at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life.
They lose a great deal."

"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."

"I had a very apt scholar.  There's Arcturus looking
very bright."

"Yes, and the Bear.  I wish I could see Cassiopeia."

"We must go out on the lawn for that.  Should you be afraid?"

"Not in the least.  It is a great while since we have
had any star-gazing."

"Yes; I do not know how it has happened."  The glee began.
"We will stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he,
turning his back on the window; and as it advanced,
she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,
moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument,
and when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most
urgent in requesting to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away
by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.



CHAPTER XII

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest
son had duties to call him earlier home.  The approach
of September brought tidings of Mr. Bertram, first in a
letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to Edmund;
and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,
agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served,
or Miss Crawford demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth,
and parties and friends, to which she might have listened
six weeks before with some interest, and altogether
to give her the fullest conviction, by the power
of actual comparison, of her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it;
but so it was; and so far from now meaning to marry
the elder, she did not even want to attract him beyond
what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required:
his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything
but pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it
perfectly clear that he did not care about her; and his
indifference was so much more than equalled by her own,
that were he now to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park,
the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she did
not believe she could accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to
Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk.  Everingham could
not do without him in the beginning of September.  He went
for a fortnight--a fortnight of such dullness to the Miss
Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their guard,
and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister,
the absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions,
and wishing him not to return; and a fortnight of sufficient
leisure, in the intervals of shooting and sleeping, to have
convinced the gentleman that he ought to keep longer away,
had he been more in the habit of examining his own motives,
and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity
was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity
and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment.
The sisters, handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an
amusement to his sated mind; and finding nothing in Norfolk
to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly
returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed
thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with
further.

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed
to the repeated details of his day's sport, good or bad,
his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours,
his doubts of their qualifications, and his zeal after poachers,
subjects which will not find their way to female feelings
without some talent on one side or some attachment on
the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia,
unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him
much more.  Each sister believed herself the favourite.
Julia might be justified in so doing by the hints
of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished,
and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.
Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence;
his manners being to each so animated and agreeable
as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short
of the consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude,
and the warmth which might excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything
to dislike; but since the day at Sotherton, she could never
see Mr. Crawford with either sister without observation,
and seldom without wonder or censure; and had her
confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise
of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she
was seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would
probably have made some important communications to her
usual confidant.  As it was, however, she only hazarded
a hint, and the hint was lost.  "I am rather surprised,"
said she, "that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon,
after being here so long before, full seven weeks;
for I had understood he was so very fond of change and
moving about, that I thought something would certainly
occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere.
He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield."

"It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare
say it gives his sister pleasure.  She does not like his
unsettled habits."

"What a favourite he is with my cousins!"

"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please.
Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia;
I have never seen much symptom of it, but I wish it may
be so.  He has no faults but what a serious attachment
would remove."

"If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny cautiously,
"I could sometimes almost think that he admired her more
than Julia."

"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking
Julia best, than you, Fanny, may be aware; for I believe
it often happens that a man, before he has quite made up
his own mind, will distinguish the sister or intimate
friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than
the woman herself.  Crawford has too much sense to stay
here if he found himself in any danger from Maria;
and I am not at all afraid for her, after such a proof
as she has given that her feelings are not strong."

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to
think differently in future; but with all that submission
to Edmund could do, and all the help of the coinciding
looks and hints which she occasionally noticed in some
of the others, and which seemed to say that Julia was
Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think.
She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt
Norris on the subject, as well as to her feelings,
and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a point of some
similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened;
and glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen,
for it was while all the other young people were dancing,
and she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at
the fire, longing for the re-entrance of her elder cousin,
on whom all her own hopes of a partner then depended.
It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation
or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the
thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition
of a violin player in the servants' hall, and the possibility
of raising five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new
intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a visit.
It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny through
four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing
even a quarter of an hour.  While waiting and wishing,
looking now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue
between the two above-mentioned ladies was forced on her--

"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed
towards Mr. Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for
the second time, "we shall see some happy faces again now."

"Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately simper,
"there will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_,
and I think it was rather a pity they should have been
obliged to part.  Young folks in their situation
should be excused complying with the common forms.
I wonder my son did not propose it."

"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss.
But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much
of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays,
Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of avoiding particularity!
Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this moment;
how different from what it was the two last dances!"

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were
sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with
great animation, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Crawford,
were close to her; they were all in a cluster together.
How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect,
for she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had
not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite delightful, ma'am, to
see young people so properly happy, so well suited,
and so much the thing!  I cannot but think of dear Sir
Thomas's delight.  And what do you say, ma'am, to the chance
of another match?  Mr. Rushworth has set a good example,
and such things are very catching."

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite
at a loss.

"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?"

"Oh dear!  Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford.  Yes, indeed,
a very pretty match.  What is his property?"

"Four thousand a year."

"Very well.  Those who have not more must be satisfied with
what they have.  Four thousand a year is a pretty estate,
and he seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope
Miss Julia will be very happy."

"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet.  We only speak of it
among friends.  But I have very little doubt it _will_ be.
He is growing extremely particular in his attentions."

Fanny could listen no farther.  Listening and wondering were all
suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again;
and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked
by him, she thought it must happen.  He came towards
their little circle; but instead of asking her to dance,
drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present
state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom,
from whom he had just parted.  Fanny found that it was
not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immediately
felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it.
When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from
the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way,
"If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you."
With more than equal civility the offer was declined;
she did not wish to dance.  "I am glad of it," said he,
in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper
again, "for I am tired to death.  I only wonder how
the good people can keep it up so long.  They had need
be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in such folly;
and so they are, I fancy.  If you look at them you may
see they are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates
and Mrs. Grant--and, between ourselves, she, poor woman,
must want a lover as much as any one of them.  A desperate
dull life hers must be with the doctor," making a sly face
as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving,
however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous
a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny,
in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at.
"A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant!  What is
your opinion?  I always come to you to know what I am to
think of public matters."

"My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you
are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection
to join us in a rubber; shall you?"  Then leaving her seat,
and coming to him to enforce the proposal, added in
a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth,
you know.  Your mother is quite anxious about it,
but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself,
because of her fringe.  Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will
just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know,
you may bet half-guineas with _him_."

"I should be most happy," replied he aloud, and jumping up
with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure;
but that I am this moment going to dance."  Come, Fanny,
taking her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer,
or the dance will be over."

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible
for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin,
or distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness
of another person and his own.

"A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly
exclaimed as they walked away.  "To want to nail me
to a card-table for the next two hours with herself and
Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking
old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra.
I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy!  And to ask
me in such a way too! without ceremony, before them all,
so as to leave me no possibility of refusing.  _That_ is
what I dislike most particularly.  It raises my spleen
more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked,
of being given a choice, and at the same time addressed
in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing,
whatever it be!  If I had not luckily thought of standing
up with you I could not have got out of it.  It is a great
deal too bad.  But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head,
nothing can stop her."



CHAPTER XIII

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much
to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense,
and being the younger son of a lord with a tolerable
independence; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought
his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable.
Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth,
where they had spent ten days together in the same society,
and the friendship, if friendship it might be called,
had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited
to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his
promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had
been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up
of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house
of another friend, which he had left Weymouth to join.
He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head
full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party;
and the play in which he had borne a part was within
two days of representation, when the sudden death
of one of the nearest connexions of the family had
destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers.
To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long
paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford,
the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall,
which would of course have immortalised the whole party
for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose
it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates
could talk of nothing else.  Ecclesford and its theatre,
with its arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes,
was his never-failing subject, and to boast of the past his
only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general,
an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he
could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers.
From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue
it was all bewitching, and there were few who did
not wish to have been a party concerned, or would have
hesitated to try their skill.  The play had been Lovers'
Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel.
"A trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste,
and such a one as I certainly would not accept again;
but I was determined to make no difficulties.
Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two
characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford;
and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me,
it was impossible to take it, you know.  I was sorry
for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,
for he was no more equal to the Baron--a little man
with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first
ten minutes.  It must have injured the piece materially;
but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties.
Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick,
but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself;
whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two.
I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick.
Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him.
Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great
by many.  And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone
off wonderfully."

"It was a hard case, upon my word"; and, "I do think you
were very much to be pitied," were the kind responses
of listening sympathy.

"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the
poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time;
and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could
have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted.
It was but three days; and being only a grandmother,
and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would
have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know;
but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct
men in England, would not hear of it."

"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram.
"Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw
left to act My Grandmother by themselves.  Well, the jointure
may comfort _him_; and perhaps, between friends, he began
to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron,
and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends,
Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield,
and ask you to be our manager."

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end
with the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened,
and in no one more strongly than in him who was now
master of the house; and who, having so much leisure
as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise
such a degree of lively talents and comic taste,
as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting.
The thought returned again and again.  "Oh for the
Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with."
Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford,
to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was
yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea.
"I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough
at this moment to undertake any character that ever
was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing
hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat.
I feel as if I could be anything or everything;
as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers,
in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.  Let us
be doing something.  Be it only half a play, an act, a scene;
what should prevent us?  Not these countenances, I am sure,"
looking towards the Miss Bertrams; "and for a theatre,
what signifies a theatre?  We shall be only amusing ourselves.
Any room in this house might suffice."

"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards
of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough."

"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing
or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be
let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this.
For mere amusement among ourselves we should want nothing more."

"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria.
"There would not be time, and other difficulties
would arise.  We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views,
and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our object.
Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."

"Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm.
"Let us do nothing by halves.  If we are to act, let it be in
a theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery,
and let us have a play entire from beginning to end; so as it
be a German play, no matter what, with a good tricking,
shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe,
and a song between the acts.  If we do not outdo Ecclesford,
we do nothing."

"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia.
"Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone
much farther to see one."

"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting;
but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to
look at the raw efforts of those who have not been
bred to the trade:  a set of gentlemen and ladies,
who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum
to struggle through."

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued,
and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's
inclination increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge
of the inclination of the rest; and though nothing was settled
but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters
and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the world
could be easier than to find a piece which would please
them all, the resolution to act something or other seemed
so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable.  He was
determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother,
who equally heard the conversation which passed at table,
did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying
his strength.  Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates
were in the billiard-room. Tom, returning from them into
the drawing-room, where Edmund was standing thoughtfully
by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a
little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging
her work, thus began as he entered--"Such a horribly vile
billiard-table as ours is not to be met with, I believe,
above ground.  I can stand it no longer, and I think,
I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again;
but one good thing I have just ascertained:  it is the very
room for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it;
and the doors at the farther end, communicating with each other,
as they may be made to do in five minutes, by merely moving
the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we
could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it;
and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom.
It seems to join the billiard-room on purpose."

"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund,
in a low voice, as his brother approached the fire.

"Not serious! never more so, I assure you.  What is there
to surprise you in it?"

"I think it would be very wrong.  In a _general_ light,
private theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_
are circumstanced, I must think it would be highly injudicious,
and more than injudicious to attempt anything of the kind.
It would shew great want of feeling on my father's account,
absent as he is, and in some degree of constant danger;
and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria,
whose situation is a very delicate one, considering everything,
extremely delicate."

"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going
to act three times a week till my father's return,
and invite all the country.  But it is not to be a
display of that sort.  We mean nothing but a little
amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene,
and exercise our powers in something new.  We want
no audience, no publicity.  We may be trusted, I think,
in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us
in conversing in the elegant written language of some
respectable author than in chattering in words of our own.
I have no fears and no scruples.  And as to my father's
being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I
consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation
of his return must be a very anxious period to my mother;
and if we can be the means of amusing that anxiety,
and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks, I shall
think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he.
It is a _very_ anxious period for her."

As he said this, each looked towards their mother.
Lady Bertram, sunk back in one corner of the sofa,
the picture of health, wealth, ease, and tranquillity,
was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was getting
through the few difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into
a chair with a hearty laugh.  "To be sure, my dear mother,
your anxiety--I was unlucky there."

"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy
tone of one half-roused; "I was not asleep."

"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you!  Well, Edmund,"
he continued, returning to the former subject, posture,
and voice, as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod again,
"but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall be doing
no harm."

"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father
would totally disapprove it."

"And I am convinced to the contrary.  Nobody is fonder of
the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes it more,
than my father, and for anything of the acting, spouting,
reciting kind, I think he has always a decided taste.
I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys.  How many a time
have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar,
and to _be'd_ and not _to_ _be'd_, in this very room,
for his amusement?  And I am sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_,
every evening of my life through one Christmas holidays."

"It was a very different thing.  You must see the
difference yourself.  My father wished us, as schoolboys,
to speak well, but he would never wish his grown-up
daughters to be acting plays.  His sense of decorum is strict."

"I know all that," said Tom, displeased.  "I know my father
as well as you do; and I'll take care that his daughters
do nothing to distress him.  Manage your own concerns,
Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the family."

"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund,
"I must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way;
and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted.
It would be taking liberties with my father's house
in his absence which could not be justified."

"For everything of that nature I will be answerable,"
said Tom, in a decided tone.  "His house shall not be hurt.
I have quite as great an interest in being careful
of his house as you can have; and as to such alterations
as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase,
or unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room
for the space of a week without playing at billiards in it,
you might just as well suppose he would object to our sitting
more in this room, and less in the breakfast-room, than
we did before he went away, or to my sister's pianoforte
being moved from one side of the room to the other.
Absolute nonsense!"

"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be
wrong as an expense."

"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious!
Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds.  Something of
a theatre we must have undoubtedly, but it will be on the
simplest plan:  a green curtain and a little carpenter's work,
and that's all; and as the carpenter's work may be all
done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be
too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson
is employed, everything will be right with Sir Thomas.
Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge
but yourself.  Don't act yourself, if you do not like it,
but don't expect to govern everybody else."

"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "_that_ I
absolutely protest against."

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was
left to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company
in every feeling throughout the whole, now ventured to say,
in her anxiety to suggest some comfort, "Perhaps they may
not be able to find any play to suit them.  Your brother's
taste and your sisters' seem very different."

"I have no hope there, Fanny.  If they persist in the scheme,
they will find something.  I shall speak to my sisters
and try to dissuade _them_, and that is all I can do."

"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."

"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with
either Tom or my sisters that could be of any use;
and if I cannot convince them myself, I shall let things
take their course, without attempting it through her.
Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had
better do anything than be altogether by the ears."

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking
the next morning, were quite as impatient of his advice,
quite as unyielding to his representation, quite as determined
in the cause of pleasure, as Tom.  Their mother had no
objection to the plan, and they were not in the least afraid
of their father's disapprobation.  There could be no harm
in what had been done in so many respectable families,
and by so many women of the first consideration; and it
must be scrupulousness run mad that could see anything to
censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only brothers
and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never
be heard of beyond themselves.  Julia _did_ seem inclined
to admit that Maria's situation might require particular
caution and delicacy--but that could not extend to _her_--
she was at liberty; and Maria evidently considered her
engagement as only raising her so much more above restraint,
and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult
either father or mother.  Edmund had little to hope,
but he was still urging the subject when Henry Crawford
entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage, calling out,
"No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram.
No want of understrappers:  my sister desires her love,
and hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy
to take the part of any old duenna or tame confidante,
that you may not like to do yourselves."

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, "What say you now?
Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?"
And Edmund, silenced, was obliged to acknowledge that the
charm of acting might well carry fascination to the mind
of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to dwell more
on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message
than on anything else.

The scheme advanced.  Opposition was vain; and as to
Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would wish
to make any.  She started no difficulties that were
not talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew
and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the
whole arrangement was to bring very little expense
to anybody, and none at all to herself, as she foresaw
in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle, and importance,
and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself
obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living
a month at her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs,
that every hour might be spent in their service, she was,
in fact, exceedingly delighted with the project.



CHAPTER XIV

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed.
The business of finding a play that would suit everybody
proved to be no trifle; and the carpenter had received
his orders and taken his measurements, had suggested
and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having
made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense
fully evident, was already at work, while a play was
still to seek.  Other preparations were also in hand.
An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton,
and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her
good management of full three-quarters of a yard), and
was actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids,
and still the play was wanting; and as two or three days
passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to hope
that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to,
so many people to be pleased, so many best characters
required, and, above all, such a need that the play
should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there
did seem as little chance of a decision as anything
pursued by youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford,
and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone,
because it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes,
though politely kept back, inclined the same way:  but his
determinateness and his power seemed to make allies unnecessary;
and, independent of this great irreconcilable difference,
they wanted a piece containing very few characters
in the whole, but every character first-rate, and three
principal women.  All the best plays were run over in vain.
Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas,
nor The Gamester, presented anything that could satisfy
even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera,
were successively dismissed with yet warmer objections.
No piece could be proposed that did not supply somebody
with a difficulty, and on one side or the other it was
a continual repetition of, "Oh no, _that_ will never do!
Let us have no ranting tragedies.  Too many characters.
Not a tolerable woman's part in the play.  Anything but _that_,
my dear Tom.  It would be impossible to fill it up.
One could not expect anybody to take such a part.
Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end.
_That_ might do, perhaps, but for the low parts.  If I
_must_ give my opinion, I have always thought it the most
insipid play in the English language.  _I_ do not wish
to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I
think we could not chuse worse."

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe
the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to
govern them all, and wondering how it would end.  For her
own gratification she could have wished that something
might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play,
but everything of higher consequence was against it.

"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last.  "We are
wasting time most abominably.  Something must be fixed on.
No matter what, so that something is chosen.  We must not be
so nice.  A few characters too many must not frighten us.
We must _double_ them.  We must descend a little.
If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making
anything of it.  From this moment I make no difficulties.
I take any part you chuse to give me, so as it be comic.
Let it but be comic, I condition for nothing more."

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law,
doubting only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss
for himself; and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully,
trying to persuade the others that there were some fine
tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort
was ended by the same speaker, who, taking up one
of the many volumes of plays that lay on the table,
and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--"Lovers' Vows!
And why should not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well
as for the Ravenshaws?  How came it never to be thought
of before?  It strikes me as if it would do exactly.
What say you all?  Here are two capital tragic parts for
Yates and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me,
if nobody else wants it; a trifling part, but the sort
of thing I should not dislike, and, as I said before,
I am determined to take anything and do my best.
And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody.
It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."

The suggestion was generally welcome.  Everybody was growing
weary of indecision, and the first idea with everybody was,
that nothing had been proposed before so likely to suit
them all.  Mr. Yates was particularly pleased:  he had
been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,
had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced
to re-rant it all in his own room.  The storm through Baron
Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition;
and with the advantage of knowing half the scenes by
heart already, he did now, with the greatest alacrity,
offer his services for the part.  To do him justice,
however, he did not resolve to appropriate it;
for remembering that there was some very good ranting-ground
in Frederick, he professed an equal willingness for that.
Henry Crawford was ready to take either.  Whichever Mr. Yates
did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short
parley of compliment ensued.  Miss Bertram, feeling all
the interest of an Agatha in the question, took on her
to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates that this was a
point in which height and figure ought to be considered,
and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him
peculiarly for the Baron.  She was acknowledged to be
quite right, and the two parts being accepted accordingly,
she was certain of the proper Frederick.  Three of the
characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was
always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything;
when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha,
began to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.

"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she.
"Here are not women enough.  Amelia and Agatha may do
for Maria and me, but here is nothing for your sister,
Mr. Crawford."

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of:
he was very sure his sister had no wish of acting
but as she might be useful, and that she would not
allow herself to be considered in the present case.
But this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram,
who asserted the part of Amelia to be in every respect
the property of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it.
"It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her," said he,
"as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters.  It can be no
sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."

A short silence followed.  Each sister looked anxious;
for each felt the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping
to have it pressed on her by the rest.  Henry Crawford,
who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with seeming
carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled
the business.

"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram," said he, "not to
engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin
of all my solemnity.  You must not, indeed you must not"
(turning to her). "I could not stand your countenance
dressed up in woe and paleness.  The many laughs we have
had together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick
and his knapsack would be obliged to run away."

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the
manner was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings.
She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed the injury
to herself:  it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted,
Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria
was trying to suppress shewed how well it was understood;
and before Julia could command herself enough to speak,
her brother gave his weight against her too, by saying,
"Oh yes!  Maria must be Agatha.  Maria will be the
best Agatha.  Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy,
I would not trust her in it.  There is nothing of tragedy
about her.  She has not the look of it.  Her features
are not tragic features, and she walks too quick,
and speaks too quick, and would not keep her countenance.
She had better do the old countrywoman:  the Cottager's wife;
you had, indeed, Julia.  Cottager's wife is a very pretty part,
I assure you.  The old lady relieves the high-flown
benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit.
You shall be Cottager's wife."

"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates.  "What are you
talking of?  The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part;
the merest commonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole.
Your sister do that!  It is an insult to propose it.
At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it.
We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else.
A little more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please.
You do not deserve the office, if you cannot appreciate
the talents of your company a little better."

"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company
have really acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean
no disparagement to Julia.  We cannot have two Agathas,
and we must have one Cottager's wife; and I am sure I set
her the example of moderation myself in being satisfied
with the old Butler.  If the part is trifling she will
have more credit in making something of it; and if she
is so desperately bent against everything humorous,
let her take Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's
wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is
solemn and pathetic enough, I am sure.  It could make
no difference in the play, and as for Cottager himself,
when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_ would undertake
him with all my heart."

"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife,"
said Henry Crawford, "it will be impossible to make
anything of it fit for your sister, and we must not suffer
her good-nature to be imposed on.  We must not _allow_
her to accept the part.  She must not be left to her
own complaisance.  Her talents will be wanted in Amelia.
Amelia is a character more difficult to be well represented
than even Agatha.  I consider Amelia is the most difficult
character in the whole piece.  It requires great powers,
great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity
without extravagance.  I have seen good actresses fail
in the part.  Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach
of almost every actress by profession.  It requires
a delicacy of feeling which they have not.  It requires
a gentlewoman--a Julia Bertram.  You _will_ undertake it,
I hope?" turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty,
which softened her a little; but while she hesitated
what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss
Crawford's better claim.

"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia.  It is not at
all the part for her.  She would not like it.
She would not do well.  She is too tall and robust.
Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure.
It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only.
She looks the part, and I am persuaded will do it admirably."

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued
his supplication.  "You must oblige us," said he,
"indeed you must.  When you have studied the character, I am
sure you will feel it suit you.  Tragedy may be your choice,
but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_.
You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions;
you will not refuse to visit me in prison?  I think I
see you coming in with your basket."

The influence of his voice was felt.  Julia wavered;
but was he only trying to soothe and pacify her, and make
her overlook the previous affront?  She distrusted him.
The slight had been most determined.  He was, perhaps,
but at treacherous play with her.  She looked suspiciously
at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it:
if she were vexed and alarmed--but Maria looked all
serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew that on
this ground Maria could not be happy but at her expense.
With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice,
she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not
keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket
of provisions--though one might have supposed--but it
is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!"
She stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish,
and as if he did not know what to say.  Tom Bertram
began again--

"Miss Crawford must be Amelia.  She will be an excellent Amelia."

"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,"
cried Julia, with angry quickness:  "I am _not_ to be Agatha,
and I am sure I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia,
it is of all parts in the world the most disgusting to me.
I quite detest her.  An odious, little, pert, unnatural,
impudent girl.  I have always protested against comedy,
and this is comedy in its worst form."  And so saying,
she walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkward feelings
to more than one, but exciting small compassion in any
except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of the whole,
and who could not think of her as under the agitations of
_jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother
soon returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was
eagerly looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help,
to ascertain what scenery would be necessary--while Maria
and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice,
and the declaration with which she began of, "I am
sure I would give up the part to Julia most willingly,
but that though I shall probably do it very ill,
I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was doubtless
receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party
was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off
together to consult farther in the room now beginning
to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's resolving
to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer
of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up
the volume which had been left on the table, and begin
to acquaint herself with the play of which she had heard
so much.  Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran
through it with an eagerness which was suspended only
by intervals of astonishment, that it could be chosen
in the present instance, that it could be proposed
and accepted in a private theatre!  Agatha and Amelia
appeared to her in their different ways so totally
improper for home representation--the situation of one,
and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed
by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly suppose
her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in;
and longed to have them roused as soon as possible
by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.



CHAPTER XV

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after
Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth
arrived, and another character was consequently cast.
He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first
did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss Bertram
to direct him; but upon being made to understand the
different style of the characters, and which was which,
and recollecting that he had once seen the play in London,
and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon
decided for the Count.  Miss Bertram approved the decision,
for the less he had to learn the better; and though she
could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and
Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently
while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope
of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly took
his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted
being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity
of his being very much dressed, and chusing his colours.
Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well,
though affecting to despise it; and was too much
engaged with what his own appearance would be to think
of the others, or draw any of those conclusions, or feel
any of that displeasure which Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all
the morning, knew anything of the matter; but when he
entered the drawing-room before dinner, the buzz of
discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates;
and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity
to tell him the agreeable news.

"We have got a play," said he.  "It is to be Lovers'
Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come
in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak,
and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit,
by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."

Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him
as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt
what his sensations must be.

"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement,
was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned
towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting
a contradiction.

"Yes," cried Mr. Yates.  "After all our debatings
and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will
suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable,
as Lovers' Vows.  The wonder is that it should not have been
thought of before.  My stupidity was abominable, for here
we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford;
and it is so useful to have anything of a model!
We have cast almost every part."

"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely,
and looking at Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered,
"I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done,
and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."

"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so
easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away
to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny,
and seating himself with a look of great vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times,
and have two-and-forty speeches.  That's something,
is not it?  But I do not much like the idea of being so fine.
I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink
satin cloak."

Edmund could not answer him.  In a few minutes Mr. Bertram
was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts
of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates,
and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost
immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot,
before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play,
without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford;
but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I
think it exceedingly unfit for private representation,
and that I hope you will give it up.  I cannot but suppose
you _will_ when you have read it carefully over.
Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt,
and see how you can approve it.  It will not be necessary
to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced."

"We see things very differently," cried Maria.
"I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you;
and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will
be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it;
and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks
it very fit for private representation."

"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter
it is _you_ who are to lead.  _You_ must set the example.
If others have blundered, it is your place to put
them right, and shew them what true delicacy is.
In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law
to the rest of the party."

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no
one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more
good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund;
you mean very well, I am sure:  but I still think you
see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake
to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind.
_There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think."

"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in
my head?  No; let your conduct be the only harangue.
Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself
unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion
and confidence than you can be supposed to have.
Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough.
All who can distinguish will understand your motive.
The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as
it ought."

"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram.
"Sir Thomas would not like it.--Fanny, ring the bell;
I must have my dinner.--To be sure, Julia is dressed by
this time."

"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny,
"that Sir Thomas would not like it."

"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"

"If I were to decline the part," said Maria,
with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it."

"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"

"Oh! she might think the difference between us--
the difference in our situations--that _she_ need
not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary.
I am sure she would argue so.  No; you must excuse me;
I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled,
everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry;
and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."

"I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris.
"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing,
and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away,
and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all.
I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there
is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most
of them) it can be easily left out.  We must not be
over-precise, Edmund.  As Mr. Rushworth is to act too,
there can be no harm.  I only wish Tom had known his own
mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss
of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain
will be a good job, however.  The maids do their work
very well, and I think we shall be able to send back
some dozens of the rings.  There is no occasion to put
them so very close together.  I _am_ of some use, I hope,
in preventing waste and making the most of things.
There should always be one steady head to superintend
so many young ones.  I forgot to tell Tom of something
that happened to me this very day.  I had been looking
about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out,
when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up
to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board
in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure;
mother had chanced to send him of a message to father,
and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board,
for he could not no how do without them.  I knew what all
this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing
at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such
encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching,
I have always said so:  just the sort of people to get
all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly
fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed
of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to your father,
Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.'
The boy looked very silly, and turned away without
offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp;
and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding
about the house for one while.  I hate such greediness--
so good as your father is to the family, employing the man
all the year round!"

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others
soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured
to set them right must be his only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily.  Mrs. Norris related again
her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor
preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's
disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he
would not have owned it.  Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's
animating support, thought the subject better avoided.
Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia,
found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than
that of his regret at her secession from their company;
and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own
dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could
be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an
hour or two:  there was still a great deal to be settled;
and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria,
and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled
in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee
at a separate table, with the play open before them,
and were just getting deep in the subject when a most
welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and
Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was,
could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful
joy.

"Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?"
and "Oh! we can do nothing without you," followed the
first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated
with the other three at the table, while his sister made
her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention
was complimenting _her_.  "I must really congratulate
your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen;
for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am
sure you must be sick of all our noise and difficulties.
The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely
more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give
you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else
who is in the same predicament," glancing half fearfully,
half slyly, beyond Fanny to Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram,
but Edmund said nothing.  His being only a bystander was
not disclaimed.  After continuing in chat with the party
round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned
to the party round the table; and standing by them,
seemed to interest herself in their arrangements till,
as if struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed,
"My good friends, you are most composedly at work upon
these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
me know my fate in the meanwhile.  Who is to be Anhalt?
What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of making
love to?"

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together
to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had not yet
got any Anhalt.  "Mr. Rushworth was to be Count Cassel,
but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."

"I had my choice of the parts," said Mr. Rushworth;
"but I thought I should like the Count best, though I do
not much relish the finery I am to have."

"You chose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford,
with a brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part."

"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,"
returned Mr. Rushworth, "which is no trifle."

"I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford,
after a short pause, "at this want of an Anhalt.
Amelia deserves no better.  Such a forward young lady
may well frighten the men."

"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it
were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler
and Anhalt are in together.  I will not entirely give
it up, however; I will try what can be done--I will look
it over again."

"Your _brother_ should take the part," said Mr. Yates,
in a low voice.  "Do not you think he would?"

"_I_ shall not ask him," replied Tom, in a cold,
determined manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards
rejoined the party at the fire.

"They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself.
"I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches.
Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself,
you will be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore,
I apply to _you_.  What shall we do for an Anhalt?
Is it practicable for any of the others to double it?
What is your advice?"

"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."

"_I_ should have no objection," she replied; "for though
I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia
if well supported, that is, if everything went well,
I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they
do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_"
(looking round), "it certainly will not be taken."

Edmund said no more.

"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would
be Anhalt," observed the lady archly, after a short pause;
"for he is a clergyman, you know."

"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,"
he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character
ridiculous by bad acting.  It must be very difficult
to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer;
and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps,
one of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage."

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment
and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the
tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was
presiding there.

"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table,
where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the
conversation incessant, "we want your services."

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the
habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome,
in spite of all that Edmund could do.

"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat.
We do not want your _present_ services.  We shall only want
you in our play.  You must be Cottager's wife."

"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.
"Indeed you must excuse me.  I could not act anything
if you were to give me the world.  No, indeed, I cannot act."

"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you.
It need not frighten you:  it is a nothing of a part,
a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether,
and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say;
so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have
you to look at."

"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth,
"what would you do with such a part as mine?  I have forty-two to
learn."

"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,"
said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the
only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every
eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."

"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_.
Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest.
You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager,
I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it
very well, I'll answer for it."

"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me.  You cannot
have an idea.  It would be absolutely impossible for me.
If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you."

"Phoo!  Phoo!  Do not be so shamefaced.  You'll do it
very well.  Every allowance will be made for you.
We do not expect perfection.  You must get a brown gown,
and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make
you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at
the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper,
little old woman."

"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny,
growing more and more red from excessive agitation,
and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly
observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother
by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile.
Her entreaty had no effect on Tom:  he only said again
what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom,
for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford,
and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from
his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious,
and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny;
and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed
the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry
and audible--"What a piece of work here is about nothing:
I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty
of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind
as they are to you!  Take the part with a good grace,
and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat."

"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund.  "It is not fair to
urge her in this manner.  You see she does not like to act.
Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us.
Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted.  Do not urge
her any more."

"I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply;
"but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl,
if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her--
very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is."

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford,
looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris,
and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to shew
themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, "I do
not like my situation:  this _place_ is too hot for me,"
and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table,
close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper,
as she placed herself, "Never mind, my dear Miss Price,
this is a cross evening:  everybody is cross and teasing,
but do not let us mind them"; and with pointed attention
continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits,
in spite of being out of spirits herself.  By a look at
her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the
theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she
was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her
to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much
obliged to her for her present kindness; and when,
from taking notice of her work, and wishing _she_ could
work as well, and begging for the pattern, and supposing
Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of
course she would come out when her cousin was married,
Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately
from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite
a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine
young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn
before he went to sea again--she could not help admitting
it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listening,
and answering with more animation than she had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss
Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom
Bertram's telling her, with infinite regret, that he
found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the
part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler:  he had been
most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible,
but it would not do; he must give it up.  "But there will
not be the smallest difficulty in filling it," he added.
"We have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse.
I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within
six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company,
and there are one or two that would not disgrace us:
I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers
or Charles Maddox.  Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow,
and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will
see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow
morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one
of them."

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round
at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such
an enlargement of the plan as this:  so contrary to all
their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.
After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied,
"As far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to
anything that you all think eligible.  Have I ever seen
either of the gentlemen?  Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined
at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry?  A quiet-looking
young man.  I remember him.  Let _him_ be applied to,
if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than
to have a perfect stranger."

Charles Maddox was to be the man.  Tom repeated his resolution
of going to him early on the morrow; and though Julia,
who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed, in a
sarcastic manner, and with a glance first at Maria and then
at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatricals would enliven
the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held
his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford,
in an undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration;
"and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some
of _his_ speeches, and a great many of _my_ _own_,
before we rehearse together.  It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected."



CHAPTER XVI

It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any
real forgetfulness of what had passed.  When the evening
was over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves still
agitated by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom,
so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinking
under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach.
To be called into notice in such a manner, to hear that it
was but the prelude to something so infinitely worse,
to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act;
and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude
follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence
of her situation, had been too distressing at the time
to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so,
especially with the superadded dread of what the
morrow might produce in continuation of the subject.
Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time;
and if she were applied to again among themselves with all
the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of,
and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do?  She fell
asleep before she could answer the question, and found
it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning.
The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room
ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent
to suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she
was dressed, to another apartment more spacious and more
meet for walking about in and thinking, and of which she
had now for some time been almost equally mistress.
It had been their school-room; so called till the Miss
Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer,
and inhabited as such to a later period.  There Miss
Lee had lived, and there they had read and written,
and talked and laughed, till within the last three years,
when she had quitted them.  The room had then become useless,
and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,
when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books,
which she was still glad to keep there, from the deficiency
of space and accommodation in her little chamber above:
but gradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased,
she had added to her possessions, and spent more of her
time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so
naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it
was now generally admitted to be hers.  The East room,
as it had been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen,
was now considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the
white attic:  the smallness of the one making the use of
the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams,
with every superiority in their own apartments which their
own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely
approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there
never being a fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably
resigned to her having the use of what nobody else wanted,
though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the
indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in
the house.

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire
it was habitable in many an early spring and late
autumn morning to such a willing mind as Fanny's;
and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not
to be driven from it entirely, even when winter came.
The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme.
She could go there after anything unpleasant below,
and find immediate consolation in some pursuit,
or some train of thought at hand.  Her plants, her books--
of which she had been a collector from the first hour
of her commanding a shilling--her writing-desk, and her
works of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach;
or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing
would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room
which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.
Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend;
and though there had been sometimes much of suffering
to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,
her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued;
though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule,
and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led
to something consolatory:  her aunt Bertram had spoken
for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet
more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion
and her friend:  he had supported her cause or explained
her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her
some proof of affection which made her tears delightful;
and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonised
by distance, that every former affliction had its charm.
The room was most dear to her, and she would not have
changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house,
though what had been originally plain had suffered all
the ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies
and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work,
too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies,
made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lower
panes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station
between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland,
a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being
anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side,
and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship
sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William,
with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the
mainmast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try
its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit, to see
if by looking at Edmund's profile she could catch any of
his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she might
inhale a breeze of mental strength herself.  But she had
more than fears of her own perseverance to remove:  she had
begun to feel undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_;
and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing.
Was she _right_ in refusing what was so warmly asked,
so strongly wished for--what might be so essential
to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the
greatest complaisance had set their hearts?  Was it not
ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself?
And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of Sir
Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify
her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest?
It would be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined
to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples;
and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins
to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of
present upon present that she had received from them.
The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes
and netting-boxes which had been given her at different times,
principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amount
of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced.
A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt
to find her way to her duty, and her gentle "Come in"
was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her
doubts were wont to be laid.  Her eyes brightened at the
sight of Edmund.

"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?"
said he.

"Yes, certainly."

"I want to consult.  I want your opinion."

"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment,
highly as it gratified her.

"Yes, your advice and opinion.  I do not know what to do.
This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see.
They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could,
and now, to complete the business, are going to ask the
help of a young man very slightly known to any of us.
This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was
talked about at first.  I know no harm of Charles Maddox;
but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being
admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable,
the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity.  I cannot think
of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil
of such magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented.
Do not you see it in the same light?"

"Yes; but what can be done?  Your brother is so determined."

"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny.  I must
take Anhalt myself.  I am well aware that nothing else
will quiet Tom."

Fanny could not answer him.

"It is not at all what I like," he continued.  "No man can
like being driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency.
After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning,
there is absurdity in the face of my joining them _now_,
when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect;
but I can think of no other alternative.  Can you, Fanny?"

"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but--"

"But what?  I see your judgment is not with me.  Think it
a little over.  Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am
of the mischief that _may_, of the unpleasantness that _must_
arise from a young man's being received in this manner:
domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,
and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away
all restraints.  To think only of the licence which every
rehearsal must tend to create.  It is all very bad!
Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny.
Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.
She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently
feels for herself.  I heard enough of what she said to you
last night to understand her unwillingness to be acting
with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part
with different expectations--perhaps without considering
the subject enough to know what was likely to be--
it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to
expose her to it.  Her feelings ought to be respected.
Does it not strike you so, Fanny?  You hesitate."

"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see
you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what
you are known to think will be disagreeable to my uncle.
It will be such a triumph to the others!"

"They will not have much cause of triumph when they
see how infamously I act.  But, however, triumph there
certainly will be, and I must brave it.  But if I can be
the means of restraining the publicity of the business,
of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly,
I shall be well repaid.  As I am now, I have no influence,
I can do nothing:  I have offended them, and they will
not hear me; but when I have put them in good-humour
by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading
them to confine the representation within a much
smaller circle than they are now in the high road for.
This will be a material gain.  My object is to confine
it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants.  Will not this be
worth gaining?"

"Yes, it will be a great point."

"But still it has not your approbation.  Can you mention
any other measure by which I have a chance of doing
equal good?"

"No, I cannot think of anything else."

"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny.  I am not
comfortable without it."

"Oh, cousin!"

"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself,
and yet--But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom
go on in this way, riding about the country in quest
of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter whom:
the look of a gentleman is to be enough.  I thought _you_
would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."

"No doubt she will be very glad.  It must be a great relief
to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.

"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour
to you last night.  It gave her a very strong claim
on my goodwill."

"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her
spared"...

She could not finish the generous effusion.  Her conscience
stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he,
"and am sure of giving pleasure there.  And now, dear Fanny,
I will not interrupt you any longer.  You want to be reading.
But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you,
and come to a decision.  Sleeping or waking, my head
has been full of this matter all night.  It is an evil,
but I am certainly making it less than it might be.
If Tom is up, I shall go to him directly and get it over,
and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high
good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together
with such unanimity.  _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking
a trip into China, I suppose.  How does Lord Macartney
go on?"--opening a volume on the table and then taking up
some others.  "And here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler,
at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book.
I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as
soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this
nonsense of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table.
But do not stay here to be cold."

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure
for Fanny.  He had told her the most extraordinary,
the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news;
and she could think of nothing else.  To be acting!
After all his objections--objections so just and so public!
After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look,
and known him to be feeling.  Could it be possible?
Edmund so inconsistent!  Was he not deceiving himself?
Was he not wrong?  Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing.
She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable.
The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously
distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened
to him, were become of little consequence now.  This deeper
anxiety swallowed them up.  Things should take their course;
she cared not how it ended.  Her cousins might attack,
but could hardly tease her.  She was beyond their reach;
and if at last obliged to yield--no matter--it was all
misery now.



CHAPTER XVII

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria.
Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond
their hopes, and was most delightful.  There was no
longer anything to disturb them in their darling project,
and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change,
with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.
Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the
scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular;
their point was gained:  he was to act, and he was
driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only.
Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he
had maintained before, and they were both as much the better
as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion,
betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners
of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape
to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they
had been forced into admitting him against their inclination.
"To have it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished.  A stranger among them
would have been the destruction of all their comfort";
and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope
as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready,
in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything.
It was all good-humour and encouragement.  Mrs. Norris
offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him
that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good
deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook
to count his speeches.

"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige
us now.  Perhaps you may persuade _her_."

"No, she is quite determined.  She certainly will not act."

"Oh! very well."  And not another word was said; but Fanny
felt herself again in danger, and her indifference
to the danger was beginning to fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park
on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely
in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal
of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but
one effect on him.  "He was certainly right in respecting
such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it."
And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet,
if not very sound.  One advantage resulted from it
to Fanny:  at the earnest request of Miss Crawford,
Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed
to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted;
and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart
during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund,
brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to
whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit
in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration.
She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here.
Her mind had been never farther from peace.  She could
not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way.  Her heart and her judgment
were equally against Edmund's decision:  she could not
acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made
her wretched.  She was full of jealousy and agitation.
Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed
an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself
which she could hardly answer calmly.  Everybody around
her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had
their object of interest, their part, their dress,
their favourite scene, their friends and confederates:
all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons,
or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested.
She alone was sad and insignificant:  she had no share
in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the
midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude
of the East room, without being seen or missed.  She could
almost think anything would have been preferable to this.
Mrs. Grant was of consequence:  _her_ good-nature had
honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered;
her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,
and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
of envying her the character she had accepted.
But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her
that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never
have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even
the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining
a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must
condemn altogether.

Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one
amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself.
Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she
had very long allowed and even sought his attentions,
with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought
to have been their cure; and now that the conviction
of his preference for Maria had been forced on her,
she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation,
or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself.
She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity
as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;
or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with
forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of
the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given,
Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual
attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared
enough about it to persevere against a few repulses;
and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time
for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to
the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence,
as quietly putting an end to what might ere long
have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant.
She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play,
and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter
which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the
best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a
most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever
had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew
her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him
not to risk his tranquillity by too much admiration there,
and then gladly take her share in anything that brought
cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did
so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.

"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,"
was her observation to Mary.

"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly.  "I imagine
both sisters are."

"Both! no, no, that must not be.  Do not give him a hint
of it.  Think of Mr. Rushworth!"

"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth.
It may do _her_ some good.  I often think of Mr. Rushworth's
property and independence, and wish them in other hands;
but I never think of him.  A man might represent the county
with such an estate; a man might escape a profession
and represent the county."

"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon.  When Sir
Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some borough,
but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing
anything yet."

"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he
comes home," said Mary, after a pause.  "Do you remember
Hawkins Browne's 'Address to Tobacco,' in imitation
of Pope?--

     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

I will parody them--

     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant?  Everything seems to depend
upon Sir Thomas's return."

"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable
when you see him in his family, I assure you.  I do not think
we do so well without him.  He has a fine dignified manner,
which suits the head of such a house, and keeps everybody
in their place.  Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher
now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep
Mrs. Norris in order.  But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria
Bertram cares for Henry.  I am sure _Julia_ does not,
or she would not have flirted as she did last night with
Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends,
I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."

"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry
stept in before the articles were signed."

"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done;
and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him
seriously and make him know his own mind; and if he
means nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry,
for a time."

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned
it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of her
own family likewise.  She had loved, she did love still,
and she had all the suffering which a warm temper and a
high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment
of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense
of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she
was capable only of angry consolations.  The sister
with whom she was used to be on easy terms was now become
her greatest enemy:  they were alienated from each other;
and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing
end to the attentions which were still carrying on there,
some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful towards
herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth.  With no material
fault of temper, or difference of opinion, to prevent
their being very good friends while their interests
were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this,
had not affection or principle enough to make them merciful
or just, to give them honour or compassion.  Maria felt
her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia;
and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy,
and bring a public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there
was no outward fellowship between them.  Julia made
no communication, and Fanny took no liberties.  They were
two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to
Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause,
must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds.
They were totally preoccupied.  Tom was engrossed by
the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did
not immediately relate to it.  Edmund, between his
theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford's
claims and his own conduct, between love and consistency,
was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
in contriving and directing the general little matters
of the company, superintending their various dresses
with economical expedient, for which nobody thanked her,
and saving, with delighted integrity, half a crown here and
there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for watching
the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.



CHAPTER XVIII

Everything was now in a regular train:  theatre, actors,
actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward;
but though no other great impediments arose, Fanny found,
before many days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted
enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had
not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and
delight as had been almost too much for her at first.
Everybody began to have their vexation.  Edmund had many.
Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter arrived
from town, and was at work, much to the increase
of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of
their proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really
guided by him as to the privacy of the representation,
was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way.
Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's
slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting.
He had learned his part--all his parts, for he took
every trifling one that could be united with the Butler,
and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day
thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of
the insignificance of all his parts together, and make
him more ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often
the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints
and the distresses of most of them.  _She_ knew that
Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully;
that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford;
that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible;
that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund
was behindhand with his part, and that it was misery
to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting
a prompter through every speech.  She knew, also, that poor
Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him:
_his_ complaint came before her as well as the rest;
and so decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's
avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the rehearsal
of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she
had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_.
So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying,
she found everybody requiring something they had not,
and giving occasion of discontent to the others.
Everybody had a part either too long or too short;
nobody would attend as they ought; nobody would remember on
which side they were to come in; nobody but the complainer
would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment
from the play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well,
and it was a pleasure to _her_ to creep into the theatre,
and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the
feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria.  Maria, she
also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first
rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience;
and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator,
was often very useful.  As far as she could judge,
Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all:
he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,
more talent and taste than Mr. Yates.  She did not like him
as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor,
and on this point there were not many who differed from her.
Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness
and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth
turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think
there is anything so very fine in all this?  For the life
and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves,
to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,
set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion."

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy,
which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at
little pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's
ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-forty
speeches became much less.  As to his ever making anything
_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that
except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part
was not more considerable, and deferred coming over to
Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal
to comprehend all his scenes; but the others aspired at
nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the first
line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
through the rest.  Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness,
was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him
all the helps and directions in her power, trying to make
an artificial memory for him, and learning every word
of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she
certainly had; but with all these, and other claims
on her time and attention, she was as far from finding
herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from
having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion.
The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have
been unfounded.  She was occasionally useful to all;
she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover,
in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris
thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident
by the manner in which she claimed it--"Come, Fanny,"
she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must
not be always walking from one room to the other,
and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way;
I want you here.  I have been slaving myself till I
can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak
without sending for any more satin; and now I think
you may give me your help in putting it together.
There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice.
It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive
part to do.  _You_ are best off, I can tell you:
but if nobody did more than _you_, we should not get on
very fast."

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting
any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--

"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted:
it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be
very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still;
and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean
to look in at their rehearsals too.  What is the play about,
Fanny? you have never told me."

"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not
one of those who can talk and work at the same time.
It is about Lovers' Vows."

"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will
be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will
give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once."

"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed
Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two--
there is very little sense in a play without a curtain--
and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up
into very handsome festoons."

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting.  Fanny did
not share her aunt's composure:  she thought of the morrow
a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed,
Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together
for the first time; the third act would bring a scene
between them which interested her most particularly,
and which she was longing and dreading to see how they
would perform.  The whole subject of it was love--
a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,
and very little short of a declaration of love be made by
the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful,
many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their
representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting.
She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it,
even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued,
and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated.
She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions,
but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent,
anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her
work to the East room, that she might have no concern
in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary
rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was
just proposing, desirous at once of having her time
to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth.
A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two
ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change
in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated
in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour,
when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance
of Miss Crawford.

"Am I right?  Yes; this is the East room.  My dear
Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way
to you on purpose to entreat your help."

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself
mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked
at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern.

"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm.  Allow me to stay
here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me
my third act.  I have brought my book, and if you would
but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged!
I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--
by ourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way;
and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through
it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little;
for really there is a speech or two.  You will be so good,
won't you?"

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could
not give them in a very steady voice.

"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?"
continued Miss Crawford, opening her book.  "Here it is.
I did not think much of it at first--but, upon my word.
There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and _that_.
How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?
Could you do it?  But then he is your cousin, which makes
all the difference.  You must rehearse it with me, that I
may fancy _you_ him, and get on by degrees.  You _have_ a look
of _his_ sometimes."

"Have I?  I will do my best with the greatest readiness;
but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little
of it."

"_None_ of it, I suppose.  You are to have the book,
of course.  Now for it.  We must have two chairs at hand
for you to bring forward to the front of the stage.
There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a theatre,
I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and
kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson.
What would your governess and your uncle say to see them
used for such a purpose?  Could Sir Thomas look in upon us
just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing
all over the house.  Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre
is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick.  If _they_ are not perfect,
I _shall_ be surprised.  By the bye, I looked in upon
them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at
one of the times when they were trying _not_ to embrace,
and Mr. Rushworth was with me.  I thought he began to look
a little queer, so I turned it off as well as I could,
by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent Agatha;
there is something so _maternal_ in her manner,
so completely _maternal_ in her voice and countenance.'
Was not that well done of me?  He brightened up directly.
Now for my soliloquy."

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling
which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly
calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly
feminine as to be no very good picture of a man.  With such
an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at
the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund,
the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each
of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund
was come on the very same business that had brought
Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely
to be more than momentary in _them_.  He too had his book,
and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him,
and help him to prepare for the evening, without knowing
Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and
animation of being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes,
and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth.  _Her_ spirits
sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming
too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having
been sought by either.  They must now rehearse together.
Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer,
and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them.
She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic,
and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all
their faults; but from doing so every feeling within
her shrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it:
had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience
must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation.
She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate
for honesty or safety in particulars.  To prompt them must
be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than enough;
for she could not always pay attention to the book.
In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the
increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed
the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help.
It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was
thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than
she hoped they would ever surmise.  At last the scene
was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to
the compliments each was giving the other; and when again
alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined
to believe their performance would, indeed, have such
nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit,
and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself.
Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand
the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts
was certainly to take place in the evening:  Mrs. Grant
and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose
as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned
was looking forward with eagerness.  There seemed
a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion.
Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end;
Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal,
and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away.
All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon,
the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception
of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was
in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up
as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only
the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there
was no Mrs. Grant.  She could not come.  Dr. Grant,
professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit
with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.

"Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity.
"He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the
pheasant today.  He fancied it tough, sent away his plate,
and has been suffering ever since".

Here was disappointment!  Mrs. Grant's non-attendance
was sad indeed.  Her pleasant manners and cheerful
conformity made her always valuable amongst them;
but _now_ she was absolutely necessary.  They could not act,
they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her.
The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed.
What was to be done?  Tom, as Cottager, was in despair.
After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be
turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say,
"If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part."
She was immediately surrounded by supplications;
everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is
not _very_ disagreeable to you."

But Fanny still hung back.  She could not endure the idea
of it.  Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well?
Or why had not she rather gone to her own room,
as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending
the rehearsal at all?  She had known it would irritate
and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away.
She was properly punished.

"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford,
with renewed entreaty.

"And I do believe she can say every word of it,"
added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other
day in twenty places.  Fanny, I am sure you know the part."

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered,
as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even
fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield.
She would do her best.  Everybody was satisfied; and she
was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their
own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other
part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door
of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it,
with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come!
He is in the hall at this moment."



CHAPTER XIX

How is the consternation of the party to be described?
To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror.
Sir Thomas in the house!  All felt the instantaneous conviction.
Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere.
Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made
it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations,
not a word was spoken for half a minute:  each with
an altered countenance was looking at some other,
and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome,
most ill-timed, most appalling!  Mr. Yates might consider
it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening,
and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every
other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation
or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting,
"What will become of us? what is to be done now?"
It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the
corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again.  Jealousy and
bitterness had been suspended:  selfishness was lost
in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance,
Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to
Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart;
and as soon as she could notice this, and see that,
in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his
station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded
heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red
as she had been white before, she turned out of the room,
saying, "_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him."

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment
the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity
of doing something.  A very few words between them
were sufficient.  The case admitted no difference
of opinion:  they must go to the drawing-room directly.
Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the
stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which
had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support.
Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment,
a moment of such peculiar proof and importance,
was worth ages of doubt and anxiety.  She hailed it
as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was
equal even to encounter her father.  They walked off,
utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of,
"Shall I go too?  Had not I better go too?  Will not it
be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner
through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means
to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay,
sent him after the others with delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates.
She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her
own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection
was much too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to remain
behind and gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation
and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest,
by the right of a disposition which not even innocence
could keep from suffering.  She was nearly fainting:
all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning,
and with it compassion for him and for almost every one
of the party on the development before him, with solicitude
on Edmund's account indescribable.  She had found a seat,
where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these
fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under
any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation,
lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival
as a most untoward event, and without mercy wishing
poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage,
or were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates,
from better understanding the family, and judging more
clearly of the mischief that must ensue.  The ruin of
the play was to them a certainty:  they felt the total
destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand;
while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption,
a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the
possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea,
when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,
and he might be at leisure to be amused by it.
The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon
agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home
and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's
accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.
But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much
of parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive
that anything of the kind was necessary; and therefore,
thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining where he was,
that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not
think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself,
and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might
seem disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being
commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself
to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door;
and after pausing a moment for what she knew would not come,
for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied
to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the lights
of the drawing-room, and all the collected family,
were before her.  As she entered, her own name caught
her ear.  Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him,
and saying, "But where is Fanny?  Why do not I see
my little Fanny?"--and on perceiving her, came forward
with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately,
and observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown!
Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look.  She was
quite oppressed.  He had never been so kind, so _very_
kind to her in his life.  His manner seemed changed,
his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that
had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.
He led her nearer the light and looked at her again--
inquired particularly after her health, and then,
correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire,
for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point.  A fine
blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face,
he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement
in health and beauty.  He inquired next after her family,
especially William:  and his kindness altogether was such
as made her reproach herself for loving him so little,
and thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having
courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he
was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged, worn look
of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling
was increased, and she was miserable in considering
how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst
on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at
his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire.
He had the best right to be the talker; and the delight
of his sensations in being again in his own house,
in the centre of his family, after such a separation,
made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree;
and he was ready to give every information as to his voyage,
and answer every question of his two sons almost before
it was put.  His business in Antigua had latterly been
prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither
in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet;
and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events,
his arrivals and departures, were most promptly delivered,
as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfelt
satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune
in finding them all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--
all collected together exactly as he could have wished,
but dared not depend on.  Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten:
a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention he was
now included in the objects most intimately connected
with Mansfield.  There was nothing disagreeable in
Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really
extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were
so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer
agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes,
and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away
her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her
attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure:
her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence:
she had done a great deal of carpet-work, and made many
yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely
for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the young
people as for her own.  It was so agreeable to her to see
him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused
and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives,
that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully she
must have missed him, and how impossible it would have
been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness
to her sister.  Not that _she_ was incommoded by many
fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present
state of his house should be known, for her judgment
had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's
pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered,
she could hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm;
but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return.
It had left her nothing to do.  Instead of being sent
for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having
to spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas,
with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves
of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but
the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously
into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded
of an office on which she had always depended, whether his
arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded;
and was now trying to be in a bustle without having
anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important
where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence.
Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone
to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted
the footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas
resolutely declined all dinner:  he would take nothing,
nothing till tea came--he would rather wait for tea.
Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different;
and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,
when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height,
she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup.
"Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be
a much better thing for you than tea.  Do have a basin
of soup."

Sir Thomas could not be provoked.  "Still the same
anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,"
was his answer.  "But indeed I would rather have nothing
but tea."

"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for
tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little;
he seems behindhand to-night." She carried this point,
and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause.  His immediate communications
were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully
around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle;
but the pause was not long:  in the elation of her
spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were
the sensations of her children upon hearing her say,
"How do you think the young people have been amusing
themselves lately, Sir Thomas?  They have been acting.
We have been all alive with acting."

"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"

"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."

"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily,
and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth
while to bore my father with it now.  You will hear
enough of it to-morrow, sir.  We have just been trying,
by way of doing something, and amusing my mother,
just within the last week, to get up a few scenes,
a mere trifle.  We have had such incessant rains almost
since October began, that we have been nearly confined
to the house for days together.  I have hardly taken out
a gun since the 3rd.  Tolerable sport the first three days,
but there has been no attempting anything since.
The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took
the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace
between us, and might each have killed six times as many,
but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you,
as much as you could desire.  I do not think you will find
your woods by any means worse stocked than they were.
_I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my
life as this year.  I hope you will take a day's sport
there yourself, sir, soon."

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick
feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards
brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found
that he could not be any longer in the house without
just looking into his own dear room, every agitation
was returning.  He was gone before anything had been
said to prepare him for the change he must find there;
and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance.
Edmund was the first to speak--

"Something must be done," said he.

"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria,
still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart,
and caring little for anything else.  "Where did you leave
Miss Crawford, Fanny?"

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom.  "I will go
and fetch him.  He will be no bad assistant when it
all comes out."

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to
witness the first meeting of his father and his friend.
Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles
burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it,
to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general
air of confusion in the furniture.  The removal of the
bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck
him especially, but he had scarcely more than time
to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds
from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther.
Some one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did
not know the voice--more than talking--almost hallooing.
He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that moment in having
the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,
found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed
to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock him
down backwards.  At the very moment of Yates perceiving
Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he
had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals,
Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room;
and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping
his countenance.  His father's looks of solemnity and
amazement on this his first appearance on any stage,
and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron
Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such
an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would
not have lost upon any account.  It would be the last--
in all probability--the last scene on that stage; but he
was sure there could not be a finer.  The house would
close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indulgence
of any images of merriment.  It was necessary for him
to step forward, too, and assist the introduction,
and with many awkward sensations he did his best.
Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance
of cordiality which was due to his own character,
but was really as far from pleased with the necessity of
the acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement.
Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend,"
another of the hundred particular friends of his son,
exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being
again at home, and all the forbearance it could supply,
to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus
bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous
exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced
in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young
man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and whose easy
indifference and volubility in the course of the first
five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.

Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily
wishing he might be always as well disposed to give them
but partial expression, began to see, more clearly than
he had ever done before, that there might be some ground
of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance
his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room;
and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate
of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond
a very allowable curiosity.  A few minutes were enough
for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir
Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few
words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal
of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement,
the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together,
Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not
lost on all.

"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he
sat down; "I found myself in it rather unexpectedly.
Its vicinity to my own room--but in every respect, indeed,
it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion
of your acting having assumed so serious a character.
It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge
by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit."
And then he would have changed the subject, and sipped
his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue;
but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning,
or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow
him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others
with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on
the topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions
and remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear
the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford.
Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to
offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion
of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking, from the beginning
to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give
him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom,
after a moment's thought.  "My friend Yates brought the
infection from Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things
always spread, you know, sir--the faster, probably,
from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing
in us formerly.  It was like treading old ground again."

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible,
and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they
had done and were doing:  told him of the gradual
increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their
first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs;
relating everything with so blind an interest as made him
not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many
of his friends as they sat, the change of countenance,
the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him
even from seeing the expression of the face on which his
own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow
contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his
daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter,
and speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof,
which _he_ felt at his heart.  Not less acutely was it
felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her
aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself,
saw all that was passing before her.  Such a look
of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never
have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any
degree deserved was an aggravation indeed.  Sir Thomas's
look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended;
what have you been about?"  She knelt in spirit to her uncle,
and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_!
Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"

Mr. Yates was still talking.  "To own the truth, Sir Thomas,
we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived
this evening.  We were going through the three first acts,
and not unsuccessfully upon the whole.  Our company is
now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will
give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening,
I should not be afraid of the result.  We bespeak
your indulgence, you understand, as young performers;
we bespeak your indulgence."

"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir
Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal."
And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home
to be happy and indulgent."  Then turning away towards
any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss
Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield.
Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he
being entirely without particular regard for either,
without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak
very handsomely of both.  "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant,
gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl."

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer.  "I do not say
he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should
tell your father he is not above five feet eight,
or he will be expecting a well-looking man."

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked
with some surprise at the speaker.

"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my
opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing.
It is having too much of a good thing.  I am not so fond
of acting as I was at first.  I think we are a great deal
better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,
and doing nothing."

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving
smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject
so much the same.  It gives me sincere satisfaction.
That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many
scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural;
and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity,
for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
exceed theirs.  But at your time of life to feel all this,
is a most favourable circumstance for yourself,
and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible
of the importance of having an ally of such weight."

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion
in better words than he could find himself.  He was
aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth;
but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions
than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value
him very highly.  It was impossible for many of the others
not to smile.  Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do
with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt,
most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion,
and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards
preserving that good opinion a little longer.



CHAPTER XX

Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his
father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole
acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only
as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives
to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness,
that his concession had been attended with such partial
good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful.
He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing
unkind of the others:  but there was only one amongst them
whose conduct he could mention without some necessity
of defence or palliation.  "We have all been more or less
to blame," said he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny.
Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout;
who has been consistent.  _Her_ feelings have been steadily
against it from first to last.  She never ceased to think
of what was due to you.  You will find Fanny everything you
could wish."

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among
such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son
had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed,
for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund,
meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression,
and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon
as he could, after the house had been cleared of every
object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its
proper state.  He did not enter into any remonstrance with
his other children:  he was more willing to believe they
felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.
The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything,
the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could
not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct.
He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having
hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent
what her judgment must certainly have disapproved.  The young
people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan;
they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed,
of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore,
he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures,
her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such
measures and such amusements should have been suggested.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being
silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she
was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the
impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would
not have admitted that her influence was insufficient--
that she might have talked in vain.  Her only resource
was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn
the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel.
She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise
as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort
of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance
at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from
her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust
and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail,
whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen,
and more than one bad servant been detected.  But her chief
strength lay in Sotherton.  Her greatest support and glory
was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths.
_There_ she was impregnable.  She took to herself all
the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria
to any effect.  "If I had not been active," said she,
"and made a point of being introduced to his mother,
and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit,
I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have
come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable
modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement,
and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we
had been idle.  But I left no stone unturned.  I was
ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister,
and at last I did persuade her.  You know the distance
to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads
almost impassable, but I did persuade her."

"I know how great, how justly great, your influence
is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more
concerned that it should not have been."

"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the
roads _that_ day!  I thought we should never have got
through them, though we had the four horses of course;
and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great love
and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box
on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring
him for ever since Michaelmas.  I cured him at last;
but he was very bad all the winter--and this was such a day,
I could not help going to him up in his room before we set
off to advise him not to venture:  he was putting on his wig;
so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady
and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is,
and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now,
that I am sure there is no fear.'  But, however, I soon
found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I
hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my
heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got
into the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost
and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything
you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him.
And then the poor horses too!  To see them straining away!
You know how I always feel for the horses.  And when we got
to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did?
You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up.
I did indeed.  It might not be saving them much, but it
was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease
and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.
I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard.
My object was accomplished in the visit."

"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth
any trouble that might be taken to establish it.
There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners,
but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his
opinion on one subject:  his decided preference of a quiet
family party to the bustle and confusion of acting.
He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish."

"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better
you will like him.  He is not a shining character,
but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed
to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing.  'Upon my word,
Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth
were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas
in greater respect.'"

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions,
disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest
satisfied with the conviction that where the present
pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness
did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him.  Conversation with any
of them occupied but a small part of it.  He had to
reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his
Mansfield life:  to see his steward and his bailiff;
to examine and compute, and, in the intervals
of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens,
and nearest plantations; but active and methodical,
he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat
as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the
carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately
put up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter
his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief
of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the
floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges,
and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied;
and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would
suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers'
Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source.
He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of
the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining,
with proper apologies for his father's particularity,
what was to be expected.  Mr. Yates felt it as acutely
as might be supposed.  To be a second time disappointed
in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck;
and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy
towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister,
he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on
the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a
little more rationality.  He believed this very stoutly
while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home;
but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat
round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser
to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it
without opposition.  He had known many disagreeable
fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences
they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life,
had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral,
so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas.  He was not a man
to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might
be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates
did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost
every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas
called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want
of real harmony.  Maria was in a good deal of agitation.
It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford
should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she
was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without
seeming to advance that point.  She had been expecting
to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too,
was still expecting him.  Mr. Rushworth had set off early
with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped
for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him
the trouble of ever coming back again.  But they had seen
no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard
no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation
and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram.  It was
the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families
had been wholly divided.  Four-and-twenty hours had never
passed before, since August began, without bringing them
together in some way or other.  It was a sad, anxious day;
and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less.  A few moments of feverish
enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering.
Henry Crawford was again in the house:  he walked up
with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to
Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered
into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family.
Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight
and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to
her father.  Her sensations were indefinable, and so were
they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford,
who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter
in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming
the play after the present happy interruption (with
a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case,
he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
required by the party:  he was going away immediately,
being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there
were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should
hold himself positively engaged, he should break through
every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his
uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted.
The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.

"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"
said he; "I will attend you from any place in England,
at an hour's notice."

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not
his sister.  He could immediately say with easy fluency,
"I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is
all over--entirely at an end" (looking significantly
at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday,
and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew
how _that_ would be from the first.  It is early for Bath.
You will find nobody there."

"It is about my uncle's usual time."

"When do you think of going?"

"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."

"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question;
and while this branch of the subject was under discussion,
Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing
to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had
already said, with only a softened air and stronger
expressions of regret.  But what availed his expressions
or his air?  He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,
voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might
be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence.
The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand
and the heart were alike motionless and passive now!
Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe.
She had not long to endure what arose from listening
to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society;
for general civilities soon called his notice from her,
and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged,
was a very short one.  He was gone--he had touched her
hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow,
and she might seek directly all that solitude could do
for her.  Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house,
and within two hours afterwards from the parish;
and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised
in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone.  His presence was
beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not,
she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge.
She did not want exposure to be added to desertion.
Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.
She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing.
By all the others it was mentioned with regret;
and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--
from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard,
to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote.
Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that
his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing;
and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself
in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was
it possible for even _her_ activity to keep pace with
her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise.
In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest:
wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a
stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;
but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive,
it was every way vexatious.  In himself he was wearisome,
but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he
became offensive.  Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent
to Mr. Crawford's going or staying:  but his good
wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey,
as he walked with him to the hall-door, were given with
genuine satisfaction.  Mr. Yates had staid to see the
destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield,
the removal of everything appertaining to the play:
he left the house in all the soberness of its general
character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it,
to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of
its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight
that might have distressed him.  The curtain, over which
she had presided with such talent and such success,
went off with her to her cottage, where she happened
to be particularly in want of green baize.



CHAPTER XXI

Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of
the family, independent of Lovers' Vows.  Under his government,
Mansfield was an altered place.  Some members of their
society sent away, and the spirits of many others saddened--
it was all sameness and gloom compared with the past--
a sombre family party rarely enlivened.  There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage.  Sir Thomas, drawing back
from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined,
at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter.
The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic
circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings,
nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants.
"But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim.  They seem
to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves.
I could wish my father were more sensible of their very
great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away.
I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected.
But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them.
They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England.
If he knew them better, he would value their society
as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort
of people he would like.  We are sometimes a little
in want of animation among ourselves:  my sisters seem
out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease.
Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings
pass away with more enjoyment even to my father."

"Do you think so?" said Fanny:  "in my opinion,
my uncle would not like _any_ addition.  I think he
values the very quietness you speak of, and that the
repose of his own family circle is all he wants.
And it does not appear to me that we are more serious
than we used to be--I mean before my uncle went abroad.
As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same.
There was never much laughing in his presence; or,
if there is any difference, it is not more, I think,
than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first.
There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect
that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when
my uncle was in town.  No young people's are, I suppose,
when those they look up to are at home".

"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a
short consideration.  "I believe our evenings are rather
returned to what they were, than assuming a new character.
The novelty was in their being lively.  Yet, how strong
the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."

"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny.
"The evenings do not appear long to me.  I love to hear
my uncle talk of the West Indies.  I could listen to him
for an hour together.  It entertains _me_ more than many
other things have done; but then I am unlike other people,
I dare say."

"Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you
want to be told that you are only unlike other people
in being more wise and discreet?  But when did you,
or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny?
Go to my father if you want to be complimented.
He will satisfy you.  Ask your uncle what he thinks,
and you will hear compliments enough:  and though they
may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it,
and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--
and that is the long and the short of the matter.
Anybody but myself would have made something more of it,
and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your
uncle never did admire you till now--and now he does.
Your complexion is so improved!--and you have gained
so much countenance!--and your figure--nay, Fanny, do not
turn away about it--it is but an uncle.  If you cannot
bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you?
You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of
being worth looking at.  You must try not to mind growing
up into a pretty woman."

"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny,
distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing
that she was distressed, he had done with the subject,
and only added more seriously--

"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in
every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more.
You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle."

"But I do talk to him more than I used.  I am sure I do.
Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade
last night?"

"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed
up by others.  It would have pleased your uncle to be
inquired of farther."

"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence!
And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word,
or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like--
I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself
off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure
in his information which he must wish his own daughters
to feel."

"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you
the other day:  that you seemed almost as fearful of notice
and praise as other women were of neglect.  We were talking
of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words.
She has great discernment.  I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better.  For so young a woman it is remarkable!
She certainly understands _you_ better than you are
understood by the greater part of those who have known you
so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive,
from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions
of the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately,
did not delicacy forbid it.  I wonder what she thinks
of my father!  She must admire him as a fine-looking man,
with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners;
but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve
may be a little repulsive.  Could they be much together,
I feel sure of their liking each other.  He would enjoy
her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers.
I wish they met more frequently!  I hope she does not suppose
there is any dislike on his side."

"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all
the rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have
any such apprehension.  And Sir Thomas's wishing just at
first to be only with his family, is so very natural,
that she can argue nothing from that.  After a little while,
I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort
of way, allowing for the difference of the time of year."

"This is the first October that she has passed in the country
since her infancy.  I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham
the country; and November is a still more serious month,
and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her
not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to
say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--
her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance,
her friends, lest it should betray her into any observations
seemingly unhandsome.  Miss Crawford's kind opinion
of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance,
and she began to talk of something else.

"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you
and Mr. Bertram too.  We shall be quite a small party at home.
I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rushworth."

"That is impossible, Fanny.  He must like him less
after to-morrow's visit, for we shall be five hours
in his company.  I should dread the stupidity of the day,
if there were not a much greater evil to follow--
the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas.  He cannot much
longer deceive himself.  I am sorry for them all, and would
give something that Rushworth and Maria had never met."

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending
over Sir Thomas.  Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth,
not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could prevent
him from soon discerning some part of the truth--
that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed,
and without seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning
to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand
_her_ feelings.  Little observation there was necessary
to tell him that indifference was the most favourable
state they could be in.  Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold.  She could not, did not like him.
Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her.
Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long standing
and public as was the engagement, her happiness must not be
sacrificed to it.  Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted
on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,
she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her:  told her
his fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be
open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience
should be braved, and the connexion entirely given up,
if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it.
He would act for her and release her.  Maria had a moment's
struggle as she listened, and only a moment's: when her
father ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately,
decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.  She thanked
him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he
was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire
of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any
change of opinion or inclination since her forming it.
She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character
and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with
him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied,
perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment
might have dictated to others.  It was an alliance which
he could not have relinquished without pain; and thus
he reasoned.  Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve.
Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society;
and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness
with him, speaking certainly without the prejudice,
the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never
supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not
be less on that account; and if she could dispense
with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour.
A well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love,
was in general but the more attached to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold
out the greatest temptation, and would, in all probability,
be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments.
Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,
the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must
attend it; happy to secure a marriage which would bring
him such an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy to think anything of his daughter's
disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him.
She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured
her fate beyond recall:  that she had pledged herself
anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility
of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,
and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth
in future, that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first
three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield,
before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she
had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on
enduring his rival, her answer might have been different;
but after another three or four days, when there was no return,
no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became
cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self
revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he
should not know that he had done it; he should not
destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too.
He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton
and London, independence and splendour, for _his_ sake.
Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it
at Mansfield more sensibly felt.  She was less and less
able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.
The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary.  She must escape from him and Mansfield
as soon as possible, and find consolation in fortune
and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit.
Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation,
would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly
be more impatient for the marriage than herself.
In all the important preparations of the mind she
was complete:  being prepared for matrimony by an hatred
of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery
of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she
was to marry.  The rest might wait.  The preparations
of new carriages and furniture might wait for London
and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon
appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient
for such arrangements as must precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for
the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected;
and very early in November removed herself, her maid,
her footman, and her chariot, with true dowager propriety,
to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton
in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly,
perhaps, in the animation of a card-table, as she had
ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same
month the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton
another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding.  The bride was elegantly dressed;
the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave
her away; her mother stood with salts in her hand,
expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry;
and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant.
Nothing could be objected to when it came under the
discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage
which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia
from the church-door to Sotherton was the same chaise
which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before.
In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand
the strictest investigation.

It was done, and they were gone.  Sir Thomas felt as an
anxious father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much
of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive
of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.  Mrs. Norris,
most happy to assist in the duties of the day,
by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits,
and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in
a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight;
for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph,
that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life,
or could have the smallest insight into the disposition
of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed,
after a few days, to Brighton, and take a house there
for some weeks.  Every public place was new to Maria,
and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would
be time for the wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton.  Since rivalry
between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually
recovering much of their former good understanding;
and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of them
exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first
consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager
for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not
have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could
better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield,
a chasm which required some time to fill up.  The family
circle became greatly contracted; and though the Miss
Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety,
they could not but be missed.  Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered
about the house, and thought of them, and felt for them,
with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never
done much to deserve!



CHAPTER XXII

Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of
her cousins.  Becoming, as she then did, the only young
woman in the drawing-room, the only occupier of that
interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto
held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not
to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to,
than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?"
became no uncommon question, even without her being
wanted for any one's convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the
Parsonage too.  In that house, which she had hardly
entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became
a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford.
Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued
by solicitation.  Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any
change for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit,
persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing
by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities
of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand
by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close
to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the
windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches
and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises,
was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on
her part, to come in.  A civil servant she had withstood;
but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella,
there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed,
and to get into the house as fast as possible; and to poor
Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal
rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over
the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning,
and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond
themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of
a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss
Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful.
The value of an event on a wet day in the country was
most forcibly brought before her.  She was all alive
again directly, and among the most active in being useful
to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at
first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny,
after being obliged to submit to all this attention,
and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses
and maids, being also obliged, on returning downstairs,
to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while
the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh
to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford,
and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing
and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant,
that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have
believed herself not in the way, and could she have
foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the
end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having
Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home,
with which she was threatened.  As to anxiety for any alarm
that her absence in such weather might occasion at home,
she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being
out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly
aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage
aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny,
observing a harp in the room, asked some questions about it,
which soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very
much to hear it, and a confession, which could hardly
be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its
being in Mansfield.  To Fanny herself it appeared a very
simple and natural circumstance.  She had scarcely ever
been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival,
there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford,
calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play
to you now?" and "What will you have?" were questions
immediately following with the readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener,
and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full
of wonder at the performance, and who shewed herself
not wanting in taste.  She played till Fanny's eyes,
straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair,
spoke what she felt must be done.

"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we
shall see how it will be.  Do not run away the first
moment of its holding up.  Those clouds look alarming."

"But they are passed over," said Fanny.  "I have been
watching them.  This weather is all from the south."

"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it;
and you must not set forward while it is so threatening.
And besides, I want to play something more to you--a very
pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite.
You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not
waited for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund,
such a memento made her particularly awake to his idea,
and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,
perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it
appeared to her, with superior tone and expression;
and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever
was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go
away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to
call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could,
to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it
necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took
place between them within the first fortnight after
the Miss Bertrams' going away--an intimacy resulting
principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new,
and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings.
Fanny went to her every two or three days:  it seemed a kind
of fascination:  she could not be easy without going,
and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking
like her, without any sense of obligation for being
sought after now when nobody else was to be had;
and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation
than occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the expense
of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on
people or subjects which she wished to be respected.
She went, however, and they sauntered about together
many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather
being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing
sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till,
in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on
the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced,
by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few
yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth.

"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around
her as they were thus sitting together one day; "every time
I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its
growth and beauty.  Three years ago, this was nothing
but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be
difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience
or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years,
we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.
How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time,
and the changes of the human mind!"  And following
the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added:
"If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_
wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.
There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible
in the powers, the failures, the inequalities
of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.
The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable,
so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak;
and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!
We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers
of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out."

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing
to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own
mind to what she thought must interest.

"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must
admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.
There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk!
Not too much attempted!"

"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does
very well for a place of this sort.  One does not think
of extent _here_; and between ourselves, till I came
to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson
ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."

"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny,
in reply.  "My uncle's gardener always says the soil here
is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth
of the laurels and evergreens in general.  The evergreen!
How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature!
In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf
is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing
that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants
differing in the first rule and law of their existence.
You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt
to get into this sort of wondering strain.  One cannot fix
one's eyes on the commonest natural production without
finding food for a rambling fancy."

"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something
like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.;
and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery
equal to seeing myself in it.  If anybody had told
me a year ago that this place would be my home,
that I should be spending month after month here, as I
have done, I certainly should not have believed them.
I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover,
the quietest five months I ever passed."

"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."

"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,"
and her eyes brightened as she spoke, "take it all
and all, I never spent so happy a summer.  But then,"
with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there is
no saying what it may lead to."

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal
to surmising or soliciting anything more.  Miss Crawford,
however, with renewed animation, soon went on--

"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country
residence than I had ever expected to be.  I can even
suppose it pleasant to spend _half_ the year in the country,
under certain circumstances, very pleasant.  An elegant,
moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions;
continual engagements among them; commanding the first society
in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading
it even more than those of larger fortune, and turning
from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing
worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person one feels
most agreeable in the world.  There is nothing frightful
in such a picture, is there, Miss Price?  One need not
envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_."

"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say.
"Come, come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be
severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing
her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours.  I expect
we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year.
Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing;
for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to
fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into
thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end
of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is."
It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund,
who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant.
"My sister and Mr. Bertram.  I am so glad your eldest
cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again.  There is
something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal,
so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."

"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny.  "To me,
the sound of _Mr._ Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning,
so entirely without warmth or character!  It just stands
for a gentleman, and that's all.  But there is nobleness
in the name of Edmund.  It is a name of heroism and renown;
of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe
the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."

"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund
or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill,
the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than
Mr. John or Mr. Thomas.  Well, shall we join and disappoint
them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors
at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?"

Edmund met them with particular pleasure.  It was the
first time of his seeing them together since the beginning
of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing
of with great satisfaction.  A friendship between two so
very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated,
that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only,
or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.

"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for
our imprudence?  What do you think we have been sitting
down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated
and supplicated never to do so again?"

"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either
of you had been sitting down alone; but while you
do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal."

"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant,
"for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the
staircase window, and then they were walking."

"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild,
that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly
thought imprudent.  Our weather must not always be judged
by the calendar.  We may sometimes take greater liberties
in November than in May."

"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with!
There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness.  You do not
know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills
we have felt!  But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one
of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with.
I had very little hope of _him_ from the first; but you,
Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right
to alarm you a little."

"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary.  You have not
the smallest chance of moving me.  I have my alarms,
but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could
have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp
east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are
some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because
the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be,
that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost
setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert)
by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse,
cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I
particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday,
because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it
on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep
beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances,
and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."

"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!"
said Miss Crawford archly.  "Commend me to the nurseryman
and the poulterer."

"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery
of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad
of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be.  But we
have no such people in Mansfield.  What would you have me do?"

"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already:
be plagued very often, and never lose your temper."

"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations,
Mary, live where we may; and when you are settled in town
and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you
with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer,
perhaps on their very account.  Their remoteness
and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds,
will be drawing forth bitter lamentations."

"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything
of the sort.  A large income is the best recipe for
happiness I ever heard of.  It certainly may secure
all the myrtle and turkey part of it."

"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which,
to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

"To be sure.  Do not you?  Do not we all?"

"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely
beyond my power to command.  Miss Crawford may chuse her
degree of wealth.  She has only to fix on her number of
thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming.
My intentions are only not to be poor."

"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants
to your income, and all that.  I understand you--and a
very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life,
with such limited means and indifferent connexions.
What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance?  You have
not much time before you; and your relations are in no
situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you
by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence.
Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not
envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you.
I have a much greater respect for those that are honest
and rich."

"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor,
is precisely what I have no manner of concern with.
I do not mean to be poor.  Poverty is exactly what I have
determined against.  Honesty, in the something between,
in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I
am anxious for your not looking down on."

"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher.
I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity
when it might rise to distinction."

"But how may it rise?  How may my honesty at least rise
to any distinction?"

This was not so very easy a question to answer,
and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady
before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament,
or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."

"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being
in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an
especial assembly for the representation of younger sons
who have little to live on.  No, Miss Crawford," he added,
in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I
should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance--
absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--
but they are of a different character."

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed
a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side
as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food
for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose
side she was now following the others, she had nearly
resolved on going home immediately, and only waited
for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock
at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she
had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought
the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take
leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue.
With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus;
and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that
his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he
had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting
Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone;
but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied
her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass.
Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to
speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he
_did_ mean to go with her.  He too was taking leave.
She could not but be thankful.  In the moment of parting,
Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton
with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an
unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant,
with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the
pleasure of her company too.  This was so new an attention,
so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of
Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment;
and while stammering out her great obligation, and her
"but she did not suppose it would be in her power,"
was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.  But Edmund,
delighted with her having such an happiness offered,
and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence,
that she had no objection but on her aunt's account,
could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty
of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice
that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny
would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such
a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled,
that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant
might expect her.

"And you know what your dinner will be,"
said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the turkey, and I assure you
a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband,
"cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."

"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better;
I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house.
But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take
their chance.  We none of us want to hear the bill of fare.
A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we
have in view.  A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton,
or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the
immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund
spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly
desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with
so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful
and indisposed for any other.



CHAPTER XXIII

"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram.
"How came she to think of asking Fanny?  Fanny never
dines there, you know, in this sort of way.  I cannot
spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"

"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund,
preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately
say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go;
and I can see no reason why she should not."

"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her?
She never did before.  She used to ask your sisters now
and then, but she never asked Fanny."

"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny,
in a self-denying tone.

"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."

"To be sure, so I shall."

"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."

"That's well thought of.  So I will, Edmund.  I will
ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can
do without her."

"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my
father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's
being accepted or not; and I think he will consider
it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny,
that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted."

"I do not know.  We will ask him.  But he will be very
much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be
said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present;
but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's
comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his
looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation
to his dressing-room, she called him back again,
when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas,
stop a moment--I have something to say to you."

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble
of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to;
and Sir Thomas came back.  Her story began; and Fanny
immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself
the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more
than her nerves could bear.  She was anxious, she knew--
more anxious perhaps than she ought to be--for what was
it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle
were to be a great while considering and deciding,
and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed
to her, and at last decide against her, she might not
be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent.
Her cause, meanwhile, went on well.  It began, on Lady
Bertram's part, with--"I have something to tell you
that will surprise you.  Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny
to dinner."

"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish
the surprise.

"Edmund wants her to go.  But how can I spare her?"

"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch;
"but what is your difficulty?"

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up
the blanks in his mother's story.  He told the whole;
and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant
never used to ask her."

"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund,
"that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable
a visitor for her sister?"

"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a
short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case,
could anything, in my opinion, be more natural.
Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady
Bertram's niece, could never want explanation.  The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_
time of its being paid.  Fanny was perfectly right in
giving only a conditional answer.  She appears to feel
as she ought.  But as I conclude that she must wish to go,
since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."

"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"

"Indeed I think you may."

"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."

"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend
the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home."

"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."

The good news soon followed her.  Edmund knocked at her
door in his way to his own.

"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without
the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side.
He had but one opinion.  You are to go."

"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply;
though when she had turned from him and shut the door,
she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad?
for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there
to pain me?"

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad.
Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes,
it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the
day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before;
and though now going only half a mile, and only to
three people, still it was dining out, and all the little
interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves.
She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought
to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste;
for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody,
and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in
a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening
her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much
as possible.

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet
with such attention and indulgence!  You ought to be
very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you,
and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look
upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are
aware that there is no real occasion for your going into
company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all;
and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated.
Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant
as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment
is intended to your uncle and aunt and me.  Mrs. Grant
thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice
of you, or else it would never have come into her head,
and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all."

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all
Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found
herself expected to speak, could only say that she was
very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening
work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.

"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you,
or you would not be allowed to go.  _I_ shall be here, so you
may be quite easy about your aunt.  And I hope you will have
a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_.
But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of
all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot
but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant
should not contrive better!  And round their enormous great
wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully!
Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I
came away, as anybody in their senses would have done,
instead of having that absurd new one of his own,
which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here,
how infinitely better it would have been! and how much
more he would have been respected! for people are never
respected when they step out of their proper sphere.
Remember that, Fanny.  Five--only five to be sitting
round that table.  However, you will have dinner enough
on it for ten, I dare say."

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their
rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me
think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you
are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech
and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward,
and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of
your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia.
_That_ will never do, believe me.  Remember, wherever you are,
you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford
is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to
be taking place of her.  And as to coming away at night,
you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.
Leave him to settle _that_."

"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."

"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely,
for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening
in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be
expecting the carriage to be sent for you.  I certainly
do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will
not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind
to what may happen, and take your things accordingly."

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable.  She rated her
own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could;
and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening
the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you have the
carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment
which made it impossible for her to speak.

"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger,
"Fanny can walk."

"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable
dignity, and coming farther into the room.  "My niece
walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year!
Will twenty minutes after four suit you?"

"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the
feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris;
and not bearing to remain with her in what might seem
a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room,
having staid behind him only long enough to hear these
words spoken in angry agitation--

"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind!
But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund's account.
I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."

But this could not impose on Fanny.  She felt that
the carriage was for herself, and herself alone:
and her uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately
after such representations from her aunt, cost her
some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute
brought down the gentleman; and as the lady had, with a
most scrupulous fear of being late, been many minutes
seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off
in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the
kind smile of an affectionate brother, "and tell you
how I like you; and as well as I can judge by this light,
you look very nicely indeed.  What have you got on?"

"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me
on my cousin's marriage.  I hope it is not too fine; but I
thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I
might not have such another opportunity all the winter.
I hope you do not think me too fine."

"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white.  No, I
see
no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper.
Your gown seems very pretty.  I like these glossy spots.
Has not Miss Crawford a gown something the same?"

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the
stable-yard and coach-house.

"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage!
who have they got to meet us?"  And letting down the side-glass
to distinguish, "'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche,
I protest!  There are his own two men pushing it back
into its old quarters.  He is here, of course.  This is
quite a surprise, Fanny.  I shall be very glad to see him."

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny
to say how very differently she felt; but the idea
of having such another to observe her was a great
increase of the trepidation with which she performed
the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been
just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the
smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing
round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution
of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.
A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund;
and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general;
and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in
his presence, since every addition to the party must
rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered
to sit silent and unattended to.  She was soon aware
of this herself; for though she must submit, as her
own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt
Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon,
she found, while they were at table, such a happy flow
of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required
to take any part--there was so much to be said between
the brother and sister about Bath, so much between
the two young men about hunting, so much of politics
between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything
and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant,
as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to
listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day.
She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman,
however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme
for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his
hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant,
advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters,
was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed
to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on.
Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance
of the open weather, but her answers were as short
and indifferent as civility allowed.  She could not wish
him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak
to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her
thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance
affected _his_ spirits.  Here he was again on the same
ground where all had passed before, and apparently as
willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state.
She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way,
till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room,
when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business
with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them,
and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking
of them with more particularity to his other sister.
With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him,
he said, "So!  Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton,
I understand; happy man!"

"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price,
have they not?  And Julia is with them."

"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off."

"Mr. Yates!  Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates.  I do not
imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park;
do you, Miss Price?  I think my friend Julia knows better
than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates."

"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!"
continued Crawford.  "Nobody can ever forget them.
Poor fellow!  I see him now--his toil and his despair.
Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever
want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"; adding,
with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him--
much too good."  And then changing his tone again to one
of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said,
"You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend.  Your kindness and
patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience
in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part--
in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied--
to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity
of your own!  _He_ might not have sense enough himself
to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it
had honour from all the rest of the party."

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed,
breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.  "I shall
always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure.
There was such an interest, such an animation, such a
spirit diffused.  Everybody felt it.  We were all alive.
There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every
hour of the day.  Always some little objection,
some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over.
I never was happier."

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself,
"Never happier!--never happier than when doing what
you must know was not justifiable!--never happier
than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly!
Oh! what a corrupted mind!"

"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone,
to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund,
and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly
were very unlucky.  Another week, only one other week,
would have been enough for us.  I think if we had had the
disposal of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government
of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox,
there would have been a difference.  Not that we would
have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather--
but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm.  I think,
Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's
calm in the Atlantic at that season."

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny,
averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual,
"As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have
delayed his return for a day.  My uncle disapproved it
all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion
everything had gone quite far enough."

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before,
and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over,
she trembled and blushed at her own daring.  He was surprised;
but after a few moments' silent consideration of her,
replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid
result of conviction, "I believe you are right.  It was
more pleasant than prudent.  We were getting too noisy."
And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged
her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy
and reluctant that he could not advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant
and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have
some very interesting point to discuss."

"The most interesting in the world," replied her brother--
"how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better.
Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living
he is to step into so soon.  I find he takes orders
in a few weeks.  They were at it in the dining-parlour.
I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off.  He will
have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with,
and earned without much trouble.  I apprehend he will
not have less than seven hundred a year.  Seven hundred
a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of
course he will still live at home, it will be all for his
_menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter,
I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice."

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying,
"Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody
settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less
than themselves.  You would look rather blank, Henry, if your
_menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven hundred a year."

"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is
entirely comparative.  Birthright and habit must settle
the business.  Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet
of even a baronet's family.  By the time he is four or five
and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for
it."

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would
be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she
could not think lightly of; but she checked herself
and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of
coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon.
I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner.
When is it to be?  Miss Price, will not you join me in
encouraging your cousin?  Will not you engage to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--
as I shall do--not to lose a word; or only looking off
just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful?
We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil.
When will it be?  You must preach at Mansfield, you know,
that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you."

"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,"
said Edmund; "for you would be more likely to disconcert me,
and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it than
almost any other man."

"Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny.  "No, he can feel
nothing as he ought."

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers
attracting each other, she remained in tranquillity;
and as a whist-table was formed after tea--formed really
for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife,
though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen;
and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest
of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford now and then
addressed to her a question or observation, which she
could not avoid answering.  Miss Crawford was too much
vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for anything
but music.  With that she soothed herself and amused
her friend.

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders,
coming upon her like a blow that had been suspended,
and still hoped uncertain and at a distance, was felt
with resentment and mortification.  She was very angry
with him.  She had thought her influence more.
She _had_ begun to think of him; she felt that she had,
with great regard, with almost decided intentions;
but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings.
It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true
attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must
know she would never stoop to.  She would learn to match
him in his indifference.  She would henceforth admit his
attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement.
If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her
no harm.



CHAPTER XXIV

Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the
next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield,
and having sent for his hunters, and written a few
lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him,
and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family,
said, with a smile, "And how do you think I mean to
amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week;
but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think
it is?"

"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."

"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_
would be exercise only to my body, and I must take care
of my mind.  Besides, _that_ would be all recreation
and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour,
and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness.  No, my plan
is to make Fanny Price in love with me."

"Fanny Price!  Nonsense!  No, no.  You ought to be
satisfied with her two cousins."

"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price,
without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart.
You do not seem properly aware of her claims to notice.
When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has
taken place in her looks within the last six weeks.
You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it;
but I assure you she is quite a different creature
from what she was in the autumn.  She was then merely
a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now
absolutely pretty.  I used to think she had neither
complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers,
so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday,
there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable
of expression enough when she has anything to express.
And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_,
is so indescribably improved!  She must be grown two inches,
at least, since October."

"Phoo! phoo!  This is only because there were no tall women
to compare her with, and because she has got a new gown,
and you never saw her so well dressed before.  She is
just what she was in October, believe me.  The truth is,
that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody.  I have always thought
her pretty--not strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,'
as people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one.
Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;
but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am
sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress,
and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore,
if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never
will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty,
or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness
and folly."

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation,
and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make
of Miss Fanny.  I do not understand her.  I could not tell
what she would be at yesterday.  What is her character?
Is she solemn?  Is she queer?  Is she prudish?  Why did
she draw back and look so grave at me?  I could hardly get
her to speak.  I never was so long in company with a girl
in my life, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill!
Never met with a girl who looked so grave on me!
I must try to get the better of this.  Her looks say,
'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you';
and I say she shall."

"Foolish fellow!  And so this is her attraction after all!
This it is, her not caring about you, which gives
her such a soft skin, and makes her so much taller,
and produces all these charms and graces!  I do desire
that you will not be making her really unhappy;
a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good,
but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is as
good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great
deal of feeling."

"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a
fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution
which nothing could save.  No, I will not do her any harm,
dear little soul! only want her to look kindly on me,
to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair
for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation
when I take it and talk to her; to think as I think,
be interested in all my possessions and pleasures,
try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I
go away that she shall be never happy again.  I want
nothing more."

"Moderation itself!" said Mary.  "I can have no scruples now.
Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring
to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together."

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left
Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart
been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford,
might have been a little harder than she deserved;
for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them)
as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment
by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do,
I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them,
or to think that with so much tenderness of disposition,
and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the
courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford,
in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him
to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere.
With all the security which love of another and disesteem
of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,
his continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive,
and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness
and delicacy of her character--obliged her very soon
to dislike him less than formerly.  She had by no means
forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever;
but she felt his powers:  he was entertaining; and his
manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and
blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil
to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end
of those few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency
rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as
they gave her a degree of happiness which must dispose
her to be pleased with everybody.  William, her brother,
the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in
England again.  She had a letter from him herself, a few
hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel,
and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left
the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked
up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling
with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing,
grateful countenance to the kind invitation which her
uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself
thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become
at all aware of her having such a brother, or his being
in such a ship, but the interest then excited had been
very properly lively, determining him on his return to
town to apply for information as to the probable period
of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.;
and the good luck which attended his early examination
of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his
ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,
as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral,
in having for many years taken in the paper esteemed
to have the earliest naval intelligence.  He proved,
however, to be too late.  All those fine first feelings,
of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given.
But his intention, the kindness of his intention,
was thankfully acknowledged:  quite thankfully and warmly,
for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her
mind by the flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them.  There could
be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately,
for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents,
from living on the spot, must already have seen him,
and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister,
who had been his best correspondent through a period of
seven years, and the uncle who had done most for his support
and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply,
fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon
as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny
had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit,
when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature,
watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs,
for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her
a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there
being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment
of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house,
and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption
and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent
upon opening the proper doors could be called such.
This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been
separately conniving at, as each proved to the other
by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised
Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing
out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival
reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas
had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a
very different person from the one he had equipped seven
years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance,
and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners,
and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating
happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last
thirty minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition;
it was some time even before her happiness could be said
to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could
see in him the same William as before, and talk to him,
as her heart had been yearning to do through many
a past year.  That time, however, did gradually come,
forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own,
and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust.
She was the first object of his love, but it was a love
which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it
as natural for him to express as to feel.  On the morrow
they were walking about together with true enjoyment,
and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_
which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency,
even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked
or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her
in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known
so much felicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal,
fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening
all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears,
plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion;
who could give her direct and minute information of the
father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she
very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts
and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
ready to think of every member of that home as she directed,
or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more
noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps
the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and
good of their earliest years could be gone over again,
and every former united pain and pleasure retraced
with the fondest recollection.  An advantage this,
a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie
is beneath the fraternal.  Children of the same family,
the same blood, with the same first associations and habits,
have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no
subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a
long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no
subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains
of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived.
Too often, alas! it is so.  Fraternal love, sometimes
almost everything, is at others worse than nothing.
But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment
in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition
of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling
the influence of time and absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion
of all who had hearts to value anything good.  Henry Crawford
was as much struck with it as any.  He honoured the
warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led
him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head,
"Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already,
though when I first heard of such things being done
in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown,
and the other women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar,
appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny
can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively admiration,
the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye,
the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her
brother was describing any of the imminent hazards,
or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough
to value.  Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold;
for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and
illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself.
He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart.
She had feeling, genuine feeling.  It would be something
to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours
of her young unsophisticated mind!  She interested him
more than he had foreseen.  A fortnight was not enough.
His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker.
His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas,
but the chief object in seeking them was to understand
the reciter, to know the young man by his histories;
and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with
full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness,
everything that could deserve or promise well.
Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal.
He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;
in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore
by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven
years had known every variety of danger which sea and war
together could offer.  With such means in his power he
had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could
fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest
of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button,
in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck
or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even
Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved,
or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say,
"Dear me! how disagreeable!  I wonder anybody can ever go
to sea."

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling.  He longed
to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much.
His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt
the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty,
had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind.  The glory of heroism, of usefulness,
of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish
indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished
he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and
working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting.  He was roused from
the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it,
by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next
day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man
of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means
of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige.
With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything,
William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could
mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself,
and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas,
who knew better than his nephew the value of such a loan,
and some alarms to reason away in Fanny.  She feared
for William; by no means convinced by all that he could
relate of his own horsemanship in various countries,
of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged,
the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow
escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the
management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase;
nor till he returned safe and well, without accident
or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk,
or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending
the horse which he had fully intended it should produce.
When it was proved, however, to have done William no harm,
she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute
tendered to his use again; and the next, with the
greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted,
made over to his use entirely so long as he remained
in Northamptonshire.

                        [End volume one of this edition.
                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,
                        Printers to Her Majesty at
                        the Edinburgh University Press]



CHAPTER XXV

The intercourse of the two families was at this period
more nearly restored to what it had been in the autumn,
than any member of the old intimacy had thought ever
likely to be again.  The return of Henry Crawford,
and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration
of the neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage.  His mind,
now disengaged from the cares which had pressed on him
at first, was at leisure to find the Grants and their
young inmates really worth visiting; and though infinitely
above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining
even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on such points,
he could not avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless way,
that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing his niece--
nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a
more willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage,
when the general invitation was at last hazarded,
after many debates and many doubts as to whether it were
worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined,
and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do
with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group:
for it was in the course of that very visit that he first
began to think that any one in the habit of such idle
observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr. Crawford
was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one,
being composed in a good proportion of those who would talk
and those who would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant
and plentiful, according to the usual style of the Grants,
and too much according to the usual habits of all to raise
any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it
with patience, and who did always contrive to experience
some evil from the passing of the servants behind her chair,
and to bring away some fresh conviction of its being
impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination
of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making up
the whist-table there would remain sufficient for a
round game, and everybody being as perfectly complying
and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist;
and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation
of being applied to for her own choice between the games,
and being required either to draw a card for whist or not.
She hesitated.  Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

"What shall I do, Sir Thomas?  Whist and speculation;
which will amuse me most?"

Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation.
He was a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel
that it would not much amuse him to have her for a partner.

"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer;
"then speculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant.  I know
nothing about it, but Fanny must teach me."

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations
of her own equal ignorance; she had never played the
game nor seen it played in her life; and Lady Bertram
felt a moment's indecision again; but upon everybody's
assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it
was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's
stepping forward with a most earnest request to be allowed
to sit between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach
them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris,
and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six,
under Miss Crawford's direction, were arranged round
the other.  It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford,
who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of business,
having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own;
for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself
mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes,
he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice,
and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition
with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for
Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame
and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough
to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began,
must direct her in whatever was to be done with them
to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease,
and preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources,
and playful impudence that could do honour to the game;
and the round table was altogether a very comfortable
contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of
the other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and
success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough
for the time his measured manner needed; and very little
of her state could be known till Mrs. Grant was able,
at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay
her compliments.

"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."

"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed.  A very odd game.
I do not know what it is all about.  I am never to see
my cards; and Mr. Crawford does all the rest."

"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the
opportunity of a little languor in the game, "I have never
told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home."
They had been hunting together, and were in the midst of a
good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when his horse
being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back.
"I told you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse
with the yew-trees, because I can never bear to ask;
but I have not told you that, with my usual luck--for I
never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due
time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see.
I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish
downy field, in the midst of a retired little village
between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to
be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my right--
which church was strikingly large and handsome for
the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house
to be seen excepting one--to be presumed the Parsonage--
within a stone's throw of the said knoll and church.
I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey."

"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you
turn after passing Sewell's farm?"

"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions;
though were I to answer all that you could put in the course
of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it
was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly was."

"You inquired, then?"

"No, I never inquire.  But I _told_ a man mending a hedge
that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."

"You have a good memory.  I had forgotten having ever
told you half so much of the place."

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living,
as Miss Crawford well knew; and her interest in a negotiation
for William Price's knave increased.

"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what
you saw?"

"Very much indeed.  You are a lucky fellow.  There will be
work for five summers at least before the place is liveable."

"No, no, not so bad as that.  The farmyard must be moved,
I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else.
The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed,
there may be a very tolerable approach to it."

"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted
up to shut out the blacksmith's shop.  The house must
be turned to front the east instead of the north--
the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on
that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am
sure it may be done.  And _there_ must be your approach,
through what is at present the garden.  You must make
a new garden at what is now the back of the house;
which will be giving it the best aspect in the world,
sloping to the south-east. The ground seems precisely
formed for it.  I rode fifty yards up the lane,
between the church and the house, in order to look about me;
and saw how it might all be.  Nothing can be easier.
The meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well
as what now _is_, sweeping round from the lane I stood
in to the north-east, that is, to the principal road
through the village, must be all laid together, of course;
very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must
purchase them.  Then the stream--something must be done
with the stream; but I could not quite determine what.
I had two or three ideas."

"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund,
"and one of them is, that very little of your plan
for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in practice.
I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty.
I think the house and premises may be made comfortable,
and given the air of a gentleman's residence, without any
very heavy expense, and that must suffice me; and, I hope,
may suffice all who care about me."

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a
certain tone of voice, and a certain half-look attending
the last expression of his hope, made a hasty finish
of her dealings with William Price; and securing his knave
at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will stake
my last like a woman of spirit.  No cold prudence for me.
I am not born to sit still and do nothing.  If I lose
the game, it shall not be from not striving for it."

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what
she had given to secure it.  Another deal proceeded,
and Crawford began again about Thornton Lacey.

"My plan may not be the best possible:  I had not many
minutes to form it in; but you must do a good deal.
The place deserves it, and you will find yourself not
satisfied with much less than it is capable of.  (Excuse me,
your ladyship must not see your cards.  There, let them
lie just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram.
You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman's residence.
_That_ will be done by the removal of the farmyard;
for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw
a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air
of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something
above a mere parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few
hundreds a year.  It is not a scrambling collection of low
single rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not
cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse:
it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as one
might suppose a respectable old country family had lived
in from generation to generation, through two centuries
at least, and were now spending from two to three thousand
a year in."  Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed
to this.  "The air of a gentleman's residence, therefore,
you cannot but give it, if you do anything.  But it is
capable of much more.  (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram
bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more
than it is worth.  Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen.
She will have nothing to say to it.  Go on, go on.)
By some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really
require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye,
I doubt anybody's striking out a better) you may give it
a higher character.  You may raise it into a _place_.
From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes,
by judicious improvement, the residence of a man
of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions.
All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive
such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great
landholder of the parish by every creature travelling
the road; especially as there is no real squire's house
to dispute the point--a circumstance, between ourselves,
to enhance the value of such a situation in point
of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
_You_ think with me, I hope" (turning with a softened
voice to Fanny). "Have you ever seen the place?"

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest
in the subject by an eager attention to her brother,
who was driving as hard a bargain, and imposing on her
as much as he could; but Crawford pursued with "No, no,
you must not part with the queen.  You have bought
her too dearly, and your brother does not offer half
her value.  No, no, sir, hands off, hands off.  Your sister
does not part with the queen.  She is quite determined.
The game will be yours," turning to her again; "it will
certainly be yours."

"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund,
smiling at her.  "Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself
as she wishes!"

"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards,
"you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you
cannot possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton
Lacey without accepting his help.  Only think how useful
he was at Sotherton!  Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day
in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius
take fire.  There we went, and there we came home again;
and what was done there is not to be told!"

Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment
with an expression more than grave--even reproachful;
but on catching his, were instantly withdrawn.
With something of consciousness he shook his head at
his sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there
was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we
were all walking after each other, and bewildered."
As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added,
in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, "I should be
sorry to have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the
day at Sotherton.  I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then."

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being
just then in the happy leisure which followed securing
the odd trick by Sir Thomas's capital play and her own
against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands, she called out,
in high good-humour, "Sotherton!  Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there.  William, you are
quite out of luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear
Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure
I can answer for your being kindly received by both.
Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their relations,
and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man.  They are at
Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there,
as Mr. Rushworth's fine fortune gives them a right to be.
I do not exactly know the distance, but when you get back
to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you ought to go
over and pay your respects to them; and I could send
a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to
your cousins."

"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost
by Beachey Head; and if I could get so far, I could
not expect to be welcome in such a smart place as that--
poor scrubby midshipman as I am."

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the
affability he might depend on, when she was stopped
by Sir Thomas's saying with authority, "I do not advise
your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon
have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my
daughters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere;
and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed
to regard all the connexions of our family as his own."

"I would rather find him private secretary to the First
Lord than anything else," was William's only answer,
in an undervoice, not meant to reach far, and the
subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end
of the second rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris
to dispute over their last play, he became a looker-on
at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions,
or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme
about Thornton Lacey; and not being able to catch
Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour
with a look of considerable earnestness.  His scheme
was to rent the house himself the following winter,
that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood;
and it was not merely for the use of it in the hunting-season
(as he was then telling her), though _that_ consideration
had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that,
in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was
impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated
where they now were without material inconvenience;
but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend
upon one amusement or one season of the year:  he had set
his heart upon having a something there that he could
come to at any time, a little homestall at his command,
where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he
might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_
that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park
family which was increasing in value to him every day.
Sir Thomas heard and was not offended.  There was no want
of respect in the young man's address; and Fanny's reception
of it was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting,
that he had nothing to censure in her.  She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination
either of appropriating any part of the compliment to herself,
or of strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire.
Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed
himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more
everyday tone, but still with feeling.

"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have,
perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price.  May I hope
for your acquiescence, and for your not influencing
your son against such a tenant?"

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way,
sir, in which I could _not_ wish you established as a
permanent neighbour; but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will
occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.  Edmund, am I saying too
much?"

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on;
but, on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.
But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant,
come to me as a friend.  Consider the house as half
your own every winter, and we will add to the stables
on your own improved plan, and with all the improvements
of your improved plan that may occur to you this spring."

"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas.
"His going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome
contraction of our family circle; but I should have been
deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
himself to doing less.  It is perfectly natural that you
should not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford.
But a parish has wants and claims which can be known
only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no
proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent.
Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton,
that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving
up Mansfield Park:  he might ride over every Sunday, to a
house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service;
he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,
for three or four hours, if that would content him.
But it will not.  He knows that human nature needs more
lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he
does not live among his parishioners, and prove himself,
by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does
very little either for their good or his own."

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey
is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I should
_not_ be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier."

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands
the duty of a parish priest.  We must hope his son
may prove that _he_ knows it too."

Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really
produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations
in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners--
Miss Crawford and Fanny.  One of whom, having never before
understood that Thornton was so soon and so completely
to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other,
startled from the agreeable fancies she had been previously
indulging on the strength of her brother's description,
no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a
future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the clergyman,
and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised,
and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune,
was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will,
as the destroyer of all this, and suffering the more
from that involuntary forbearance which his character
and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve
herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour.
It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed;
and she was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion,
and be able to refresh her spirits by a change of place
and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly
round the fire, and waiting the final break-up. William
and Fanny were the most detached.  They remained
together at the otherwise deserted card-table, talking
very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some
of the rest began to think of them.  Henry Crawford's
chair was the first to be given a direction towards them,
and he sat silently observing them for a few minutes;
himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas,
who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

"This is the assembly night," said William.  "If I were
at Portsmouth I should be at it, perhaps."

"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?"

"No, Fanny, that I do not.  I shall have enough of Portsmouth
and of dancing too, when I cannot have you.  And I do not
know that there would be any good in going to the assembly,
for I might not get a partner.  The Portsmouth girls turn
up their noses at anybody who has not a commission.
One might as well be nothing as a midshipman.
One _is_ nothing, indeed.  You remember the Gregorys;
they are grown up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly
speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant."

"Oh! shame, shame!  But never mind it, William" (her own
cheeks in a glow of indignation as she spoke). "It is not
worth minding.  It is no reflection on _you_; it is no
more than what the greatest admirals have all experienced,
more or less, in their time.  You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the
hardships which fall to every sailor's share, like bad
weather and hard living, only with this advantage,
that there will be an end to it, that there will come
a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure.
When you are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you
are a lieutenant, how little you will care for any nonsense
of this kind."

"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny.
Everybody gets made but me."

"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding.
My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything
in his power to get you made.  He knows, as well as you do,
of what consequence it is."

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer
to them than she had any suspicion of, and each found
it necessary to talk of something else.

"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"

"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."

"I should like to go to a ball with you and see
you dance.  Have you never any balls at Northampton?
I should like to see you dance, and I'd dance with you
if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more.
We used to jump about together many a time, did not we?
when the hand-organ was in the street?  I am a pretty
good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better."
And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them,
"Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?"

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question,
did not know which way to look, or how to be prepared
for the answer.  Some very grave reproof, or at least
the coldest expression of indifference, must be coming
to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground.
But, on the contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry
to say that I am unable to answer your question.
I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl;
but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like
a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may
have an opportunity of doing ere long."

"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance,
Mr. Price," said Henry Crawford, leaning forward,
"and will engage to answer every inquiry which you can
make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) "it must
be at some other time.  There is _one_ person in company
who does not like to have Miss Price spoken of."

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was
equally true that he would now have answered for her gliding
about with quiet, light elegance, and in admirable time;
but, in fact, he could not for the life of him recall
what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted
that she had been present than remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing;
and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the
conversation on dancing in general, and was so well
engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening
to what his nephew could relate of the different modes
of dancing which had fallen within his observation,
that he had not heard his carriage announced, and was first
called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.

"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about?  We are going.
Do not you see your aunt is going?  Quick, quick!  I cannot
bear to keep good old Wilcox waiting.  You should always
remember the coachman and horses.  My dear Sir Thomas,
we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,
and Edmund and William."

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his
own arrangement, previously communicated to his wife
and sister; but _that_ seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris,
who must fancy that she settled it all herself.

Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment:
for the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking from the
servant to bring and put round her shoulders was seized
by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was obliged to be
indebted to his more prominent attention.



CHAPTER XXVI

William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a
momentary impression on his uncle.  The hope of an opportunity,
which Sir Thomas had then given, was not given to be thought
of no more.  He remained steadily inclined to gratify
so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody else who might
wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the young
people in general; and having thought the matter over,
and taken his resolution in quiet independence,
the result of it appeared the next morning at breakfast,
when, after recalling and commending what his nephew
had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence.
It would give me pleasure to see you both dance.
You spoke of the balls at Northampton.  Your cousins have
occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether
suit us now.  The fatigue would be too much for your aunt.
I believe we must not think of a Northampton ball.
A dance at home would be more eligible; and if--"

"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew
what was coming.  I knew what you were going to say.  If dear
Julia were at home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton,
to afford a reason, an occasion for such a thing, you would
be tempted to give the young people a dance at Mansfield.
I know you would.  If _they_ were at home to grace
the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas.
Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle!"

"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing,
"have their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy;
but the dance which I think of giving at Mansfield
will be for their cousins.  Could we be all assembled,
our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete,
but the absence of some is not to debar the others
of amusement."

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say.  She saw decision
in his looks, and her surprise and vexation required
some minutes' silence to be settled into composure.
A ball at such a time!  His daughters absent and herself
not consulted!  There was comfort, however, soon at hand.
_She_ must be the doer of everything:  Lady Bertram
would of course be spared all thought and exertion,
and it would all fall upon _her_.  She should have to do
the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join
in with the others, before their happiness and thanks were
all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways,
look and speak as much grateful pleasure in the promised
ball as Sir Thomas could desire.  Edmund's feelings
were for the other two.  His father had never conferred
a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented,
and had no objections to make.  Sir Thomas engaged
for its giving her very little trouble; and she assured
him "that she was not at all afraid of the trouble;
indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he
would think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged;
and when she would have conjectured and hinted about
the day, it appeared that the day was settled too.
Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a very
complete outline of the business; and as soon as she
would listen quietly, could read his list of the families
to be invited, from whom he calculated, with all necessary
allowance for the shortness of the notice, to collect
young people enough to form twelve or fourteen couple:
and could detail the considerations which had induced
him to fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day.
William was required to be at Portsmouth on the 24th;
the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his visit;
but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix
on any earlier.  Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied
with thinking just the same, and with having been on the
point of proposing the 22nd herself, as by far the best day
for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening
a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned.  Invitations were
sent with despatch, and many a young lady went to bed that
night with her head full of happy cares as well as Fanny.
To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond the happiness;
for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice
and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she
should be dressed" was a point of painful solicitude;
and the almost solitary ornament in her possession,
a very pretty amber cross which William had brought
her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all,
for she had nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to;
and though she had worn it in that manner once, would it
be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
would appear in?  And yet not to wear it!  William had
wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the purchase had
been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear the cross
might be mortifying him.  These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect
of a ball given principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued
to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them.
She had some extra visits from the housekeeper, and her
maid was rather hurried in making up a new dress for her:
Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about;
but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
"there was, in fact, no trouble in the business."

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares:
his mind being deeply occupied in the consideration of two
important events now at hand, which were to fix his fate
in life--ordination and matrimony--events of such a serious
character as to make the ball, which would be very quickly
followed by one of them, appear of less moment in his
eyes than in those of any other person in the house.
On the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough,
in the same situation as himself, and they were to
receive ordination in the course of the Christmas week.
Half his destiny would then be determined, but the other
half might not be so very smoothly wooed.  His duties would
be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate,
and reward those duties, might yet be unattainable.
He knew his own mind, but he was not always perfectly assured
of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were points on which they
did not quite agree; there were moments in which she did
not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to
her affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--
on bringing it to a decision within a very short time,
as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged,
and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many
anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result.
His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong;
he could look back on a long course of encouragement,
and she was as perfect in disinterested attachment as
in everything else.  But at other times doubt and alarm
intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement,
her decided preference of a London life, what could he expect
but a determined rejection? unless it were an acceptance
even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices
of situation and employment on his side as conscience
must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question.  Did she
love him well enough to forego what had used to be
essential points?  Did she love him well enough to make
them no longer essential?  And this question, which he
was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest
answered with a "Yes," had sometimes its "No."

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this
circumstance the "no" and the "yes" had been very recently
in alternation.  He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke
of the dear friend's letter, which claimed a long visit from
her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in engaging
to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such
a journey with an animation which had "no" in every tone.
But this had occurred on the first day of its being settled,
within the first hour of the burst of such enjoyment,
when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before her.
He had since heard her express herself differently,
with other feelings, more chequered feelings:  he had heard
her tell Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret;
that she began to believe neither the friends nor
the pleasures she was going to were worth those she
left behind; and that though she felt she must go,
and knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was
already looking forward to being at Mansfield again.
Was there not a "yes" in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange,
Edmund could not, on his own account, think very much
of the evening which the rest of the family were looking
forward to with a more equal degree of strong interest.
Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it,
the evening was to him of no higher value than any
other appointed meeting of the two families might be.
In every meeting there was a hope of receiving farther
confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the whirl
of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable
to the excitement or expression of serious feelings.
To engage her early for the two first dances was all the
command of individual happiness which he felt in his power,
and the only preparation for the ball which he could
enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him
on the subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday
morning Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself as to what
she ought to wear, determined to seek the counsel of the
more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and her sister,
whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;
and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton,
and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out,
she walked down to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting
an opportunity for private discussion; and the privacy of
such a discussion was a most important part of it to Fanny,
being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage,
just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed to her
that her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back,
was unwilling to lose her walk, she explained her business
at once, and observed, that if she would be so kind
as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as
well without doors as within.  Miss Crawford appeared
gratified by the application, and after a moment's thought,
urged Fanny's returning with her in a much more cordial
manner than before, and proposed their going up into
her room, where they might have a comfortable coze,
without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together
in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny;
and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready
and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs,
and were soon deep in the interesting subject.  Miss Crawford,
pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment
and taste, made everything easy by her suggestions,
and tried to make everything agreeable by her encouragement.
The dress being settled in all its grander parts--
"But what shall you have by way of necklace?" said Miss
Crawford.  "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?"
And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel,
which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met.
Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point:
she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to
refrain from wearing it.  She was answered by having
a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requested
to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces.
Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford
was provided, and such the object of her intended visit:
and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one
for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying everything
she could think of to obviate the scruples which were
making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at
the proposal.

"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half
than I ever use or think of.  I do not offer them as new.
I offer nothing but an old necklace.  You must forgive
the liberty, and oblige me."

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart.  The gift was
too valuable.  But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued
the case with so much affectionate earnestness through
all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball,
and herself, as to be finally successful.  Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused
of pride or indifference, or some other littleness;
and having with modest reluctance given her consent,
proceeded to make the selection.  She looked and looked,
longing to know which might be least valuable; and was
determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was
one necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than
the rest.  It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny
would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain as more
adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this,
to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep.
Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened
to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her,
and making her see how well it looked.  Fanny had not a
word to say against its becomingness, and, excepting what
remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with an
acquisition so very apropos.  She would rather, perhaps,
have been obliged to some other person.  But this was
an unworthy feeling.  Miss Crawford had anticipated her
wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend.
"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,"
said she, "and feel how very kind you were."

"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear
that necklace," replied Miss Crawford.  "You must think
of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place.
He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver.
It is to be a family remembrancer.  The sister is not to be
in your mind without bringing the brother too."

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have
returned the present instantly.  To take what had
been the gift of another person, of a brother too,
impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and
embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid
down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved
either to take another or none at all.  Miss Crawford
thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness.
"My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of?
Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine,
and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you
imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing
round your lovely throat an ornament which his money
purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such
a throat in the world? or perhaps"--looking archly--
"you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what
I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?"

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such
a thought.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously,
but without at all believing her, "to convince me that you
suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment
as I have always found you, take the necklace and say
no more about it.  Its being a gift of my brother's need
not make the smallest difference in your accepting it,
as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part
with it.  He is always giving me something or other.
I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite
impossible for me to value or for him to remember half.
And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it
six times:  it is very pretty, but I never think of it;
and though you would be most heartily welcome to any
other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on
the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather
part with and see in your possession than any other.
Say no more against it, I entreat you.  Such a trifle is
not worth half so many words."

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with
renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again,
for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes
which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's
change of manners.  She had long seen it.  He evidently
tried to please her:  he was gallant, he was attentive,
he was something like what he had been to her cousins:
he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity
as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some
concern in this necklace--she could not be convinced that
he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister,
was careless as a woman and a friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession
of what she had so much wished for did not bring much
satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather
than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before.



CHAPTER XXVII

On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to
deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good
of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room,
which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening
the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund
there writing at the table!  Such a sight having never
occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen,
and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg
your pardon for being here.  I came to look for you,
and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in,
was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand.
You will find the beginning of a note to yourself;
but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg
your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain for
William's cross.  You ought to have had it a week ago,
but there has been a delay from my brother's not
being in town by several days so soon as I expected;
and I have only just now received it at Northampton.
I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny.  I endeavoured
to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,
I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it,
as it really is, a token of the love of one of your
oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny,
overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure,
could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish,
she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment,
pray stop!"

He turned back.

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a
very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question.
I feel much more than I can possibly express.
Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond--"

"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning
away again.

"No, no, it is not.  I want to consult you."

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he
had just put into her hand, and seeing before her,
in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain
gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help
bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed!
This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for!
This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess.
It will exactly suit my cross.  They must and shall be
worn together.  It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment.
Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."

"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much.
I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it
should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are
far beyond the occasion.  Believe me, I have no pleasure
in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.
No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete,
so unalloyed.  It is without a drawback."

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have
lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund,
after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her
mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is it
that you want to consult me about?"

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly
longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation
of her doing.  She gave the history of her recent visit,
and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so
struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss
Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence
of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit
the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind,
though it might have its drawback.  It was some time
before she could get his attention to her plan, or any
answer to her demand of his opinion:  he was in a reverie
of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few
half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand,
he was very decided in opposing what she wished.

"Return the necklace!  No, my dear Fanny, upon no account.
It would be mortifying her severely.  There can hardly
be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything
returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable
hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend.
Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself
so deserving of?"

"If it had been given to me in the first instance,"
said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it;
but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose
that she would rather not part with it, when it is
not wanted?"

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable,
at least:  and its having been originally her brother's
gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented
from offering, nor you from taking it on that account,
it ought not to prevent you from keeping it.  No doubt it
is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer
in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit.
The chain will agree with William's cross beyond
all comparison better than the necklace."

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_
a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration,
make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been
so studious of your comfort.  Miss Crawford's attentions
to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled to--
I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_,
but they have been invariable; and to be returning them
with what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude,
though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not
in your nature, I am sure.  Wear the necklace, as you
are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain,
which was not ordered with any reference to the ball,
be kept for commoner occasions.  This is my advice.
I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure,
and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance
in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few
slight differences, resulting principally from situation,
no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship.  I would
not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated,
his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects
I have on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise
herself as she could.  She was one of his two dearest--
that must support her.  But the other:  the first!
She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though
it told her no more than what she had long perceived,
it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views.
They were decided.  He would marry Miss Crawford.
It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation;
and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she
was one of his two dearest, before the words gave
her any sensation.  Could she believe Miss Crawford to
deserve him, it would be--oh, how different would it be--
how far more tolerable!  But he was deceived in her:
he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer.
Till she had shed many tears over this deception,
Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection
which followed could only be relieved by the influence of
fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty,
to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that
bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund.
To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be
a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility.  To think of him as Miss Crawford
might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity.
To her he could be nothing under any circumstances;
nothing dearer than a friend.  Why did such an idea occur
to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden?  It ought
not to have touched on the confines of her imagination.
She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve
the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character,
and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound
intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined
to do her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth
and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making
all these good resolutions on the side of self-government,
she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun
writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words,
"My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept"
locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift.
It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she
had ever received from him; she might never receive another;
it was impossible that she ever should receive another
so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.
Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen
of the most distinguished author--never more completely
blessed the researches of the fondest biographer.
The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond
the biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself,
independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness.
Never were such characters cut by any other human being
as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave!  This specimen,
written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there
was a felicity in the flow of the first four words,
in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she
could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings
by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able
in due time to go down and resume her usual employments
near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observances
without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened
with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed,
unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast
a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford
to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could
not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore
hoped that if William could make up his mind to leave
Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed,
he would accept a place in his carriage.  Mr. Crawford meant
to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour,
and William was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's.
The proposal was a very pleasant one to William himself,
who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses,
and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening
it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything
in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination
could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive,
was exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was that
William should go up by the mail from Northampton the
following night, which would not have allowed him an hour's
rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach;
and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her
of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having
William spared from the fatigue of such a journey,
to think of anything else.  Sir Thomas approved of it
for another reason.  His nephew's introduction to Admiral
Crawford might be of service.  The Admiral, he believed,
had interest.  Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note.
Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving
some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go
away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many
agitations and fears to have half the enjoyment in
anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have
been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease,
but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest,
less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed
to her.  Miss Price, known only by name to half the
people invited, was now to make her first appearance,
and must be regarded as the queen of the evening.
Who could be happier than Miss Price?  But Miss Price
had not been brought up to the trade of _coming_ _out_;
and had she known in what light this ball was, in general,
considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened
her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at.  To dance without much observation
or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners
for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund,
and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William
enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris,
was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehend
her greatest possibility of happiness.  As these were
the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail;
and in the course of a long morning, spent principally
with her two aunts, she was often under the influence
of much less sanguine views.  William, determined to
make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment,
was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason
to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear
the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the
housekeeper would have her own way with the supper,
and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might,
Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evil
belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry
to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt
as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in
it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday;
it had been about the same hour that she had returned
from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room.
"Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she
to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her.
Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she
had just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head
of a different staircase.  He came towards her.  "You look
tired and fagged, Fanny.  You have been walking too far."

"No, I have not been out at all."

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse.
You had better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make
no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness,
she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance.
He did not appear in spirits:  something unconnected with
her was probably amiss.  They proceeded upstairs together,
their rooms being on the same floor above.

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently.
"You may guess my errand there, Fanny."  And he looked
so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand,
which turned her too sick for speech.  "I wished to
engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the
explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again,
enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak,
to utter something like an inquiry as to the result.

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile
that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time
that she ever will dance with me.  She is not serious.
I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would
rather not hear it.  She never has danced with a clergyman,
she says, and she never _will_.  For my own sake, I could
wish there had been no ball just at--I mean not this
very week, this very day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry
that anything has occurred to distress you.  This ought
to be a day of pleasure.  My uncle meant it so."

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure.
It will all end right.  I am only vexed for a moment.
In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-timed;
what does it signify?  But, Fanny," stopping her,
by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously,
"you know what all this means.  You see how it is;
and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you,
how and why I am vexed.  Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener.  I have been pained
by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better
of it.  I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former
companions makes her seem--gives to her conversation,
to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong.
She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks it, speaks it
in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness,
it grieves me to the soul."

"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it.  "Yes, that uncle and aunt!
They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes,
Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner:
it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment,
and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If you
only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful
as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser.
Do not ask advice of _me_.  I am not competent."

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office,
but you need not be afraid.  It is a subject on which I
should never ask advice; it is the sort of subject on
which it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine,
do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against
their conscience.  I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more.  Excuse the liberty; but take care
_how_ you talk to me.  Do not tell me anything now,
which hereafter you may be sorry for.  The time may come--"

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to
his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been
Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought!
But it is unnecessary here.  The time will never come.
No such time as you allude to will ever come.  I begin to
think it most improbable:  the chances grow less and less;
and even if it should, there will be nothing to be
remembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of,
for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise
her character the more by the recollection of the faults
she once had.  You are the only being upon earth to whom
I should say what I have said; but you have always known
my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I
have never been blinded.  How many a time have we
talked over her little errors!  You need not fear me;
I have almost given up every serious idea of her;
but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me,
I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.
He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings
than she had lately known, and with a brighter look,
she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that _you_
would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not.  I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you
wish to say.  Do not check yourself.  Tell me whatever
you like."

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance
of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation.
For Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps,
at the happiest moment:  had he been able to talk another
five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence.
But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of
grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations
on hers.  She had felt nothing like it for hours.
Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had
worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse;
there had been no comfort around, no hope within her.
Now everything was smiling.  William's good fortune
returned again upon her mind, and seemed of greater
value than at first.  The ball, too--such an evening
of pleasure before her!  It was now a real animation;
and she began to dress for it with much of the happy
flutter which belongs to a ball.  All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came
to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete,
for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would
by no means go through the ring of the cross.  She had,
to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too
large for the purpose.  His, therefore, must be worn;
and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain
and the cross--those memorials of the two most beloved
of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each
other by everything real and imaginary--and put them
round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William
and Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort,
to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too.
She acknowledged it to be right.  Miss Crawford had a claim;
and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere
with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another,
she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself.
The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all
about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with
an unusual degree of wakefulness.  It had really occurred
to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball,
might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's,
and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid
to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use.
Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss
Price came out of her room completely dressed, and only
civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman
could do themselves.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room
when Fanny went down.  To the former she was an interesting
object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance
of her appearance, and her being in remarkably good looks.
The neatness and propriety of her dress was all that
he would allow himself to commend in her presence,
but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards,
he spoke of her beauty with very decided praise.

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well.
I sent Chapman to her."

"Look well!  Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has
good reason to look well with all her advantages:
brought up in this family as she has been, with all
the benefit of her cousins' manners before her.
Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary
advantages you and I have been the means of giving her.
The very gown you have been taking notice of is your own
generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married.
What would she have been if we had not taken her by
the hand?"

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table
the eyes of the two young men assured him that the subject
might be gently touched again, when the ladies withdrew,
with more success.  Fanny saw that she was approved;
and the consciousness of looking well made her look
still better.  From a variety of causes she was happy,
and she was soon made still happier; for in following her
aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door,
said, as she passed him, "You must dance with me, Fanny;
you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first."  She had nothing more to wish for.
She had hardly ever been in a state so nearly approaching
high spirits in her life.  Her cousins' former gaiety
on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to her;
she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually
practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was
entirely taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring
the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid
under any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness
still prevailed.  It was but to think of her conversation
with Edmund, and what was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris?
What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet
expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease
and enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about
and talked and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure
and its hope.  Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see
the effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began
really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued:
the sight of so many strangers threw her back into herself;
and besides the gravity and formality of the first great circle,
which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram
were of a kind to do away, she found herself occasionally
called on to endure something worse.  She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to,
and to curtsey, and speak again.  This was a hard duty,
and she was never summoned to it without looking at William,
as he walked about at his ease in the background of the scene,
and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch.
The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their
popular manners and more diffused intimacies:  little groups
were formed, and everybody grew comfortable.  Fanny felt
the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils of civility,
would have been again most happy, could she have kept
her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford.
_She_ looked all loveliness--and what might not be
the end of it?  Her own musings were brought to an end
on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts
were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances.  Her happiness on this
occasion was very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered.
To be secure of a partner at first was a most essential good--
for the moment of beginning was now growing seriously near;
and she so little understood her own claims as to think
that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been
the last to be sought after, and should have received
a partner only through a series of inquiry, and bustle,
and interference, which would have been terrible; but at
the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking
her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing
for a moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought
there was a smile--which made her blush and feel wretched.
And though there was no second glance to disturb her,
though his object seemed then to be only quietly agreeable,
she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,
and had no composure till he turned away to some one else.
Then she could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction
of having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against
the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found
herself for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes
and smiles were immediately and more unequivocally directed
as her brother's had been, and who was beginning to speak
on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story over,
hastened to give the explanation of the second necklace:
the real chain.  Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten:
she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they
had been before, shewing they could yet be brighter,
she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he?  Did Edmund?
That was like himself.  No other man would have thought of it.
I honour him beyond expression."  And she looked around
as if longing to tell him so.  He was not near, he was
attending a party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant
coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,
they followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for
thinking long even of Miss Crawford's feelings.
They were in the ballroom, the violins were playing,
and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious.  She must watch the general arrangements,
and see how everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if
she were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,"
was exactly what he had intended to hear.  Mr. Crawford
was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_
was to lead the way and open the ball; an idea that had
never occurred to her before.  Whenever she had thought
of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a matter
of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford;
and the impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_
spoke the contrary, she could not help an exclamation
of surprise, a hint of her unfitness, an entreaty even to
be excused.  To be urging her opinion against Sir Thomas's
was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually
look him in the face and say that she hoped it might be
settled otherwise; in vain, however:  Sir Thomas smiled,
tried to encourage her, and then looked too serious,
and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her
to hazard another word; and she found herself the next
moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room,
and standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers,
couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it.  To be placed above so many
elegant young women!  The distinction was too great.
It was treating her like her cousins!  And her thoughts
flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned and truly
tender regret, that they were not at home to take their
own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure
which would have been so very delightful to them.
So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home
as the greatest of all felicities!  And to have them away
when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the ball--
and with Mr. Crawford too!  She hoped they would not envy
her that distinction _now_; but when she looked back
to the state of things in the autumn, to what they had all
been to each other when once dancing in that house before,
the present arrangement was almost more than she could
understand herself.

The ball began.  It was rather honour than happiness
to Fanny, for the first dance at least:  her partner was
in excellent spirits, and tried to impart them to her;
but she was a great deal too much frightened to have
any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer
looked at.  Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had
no awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces,
and there were few persons present that were not disposed
to praise her.  She was attractive, she was modest,
she was Sir Thomas's niece, and she was soon said
to be admired by Mr. Crawford.  It was enough to give
her general favour.  Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency;
he was proud of his niece; and without attributing
all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do,
to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased
with himself for having supplied everything else:
education and manners she owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood,
and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her,
a general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him,
took an opportunity of stepping aside to say something
agreeable of Fanny.  Her praise was warm, and he received
it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion,
and politeness, and slowness of speech would allow,
and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the subject
than his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her
on a sofa very near, turned round before she began to dance,
to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
"Chapman helped her to dress.  I sent Chapman to her."
Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired;
but she was so much more struck with her own kindness
in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get it out
of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of
gratifying _her_ by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was
as the occasion offered--"Ah! ma'am, how much we want dear
Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and Mrs. Norris paid
her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself
in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas,
and trying to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her
intentions to please.  She meant to be giving her little
heart a happy flutter, and filling her with sensations
of delightful self-consequence; and, misinterpreting Fanny's
blushes, still thought she must be doing so when she
went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
significant look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother
goes to town to-morrow? He says he has business there,
but will not tell me what.  The first time he ever denied
me his confidence!  But this is what we all come to.
All are supplanted sooner or later.  Now, I must apply
to you for information.  Pray, what is Henry going for?"

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her
embarrassment allowed.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must
suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying
your brother, and of talking of you by the way."

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent;
while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought
her over-anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her anything
rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry's attentions.
Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening;
but Henry's attentions had very little to do with it.
She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again
so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged
to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris,
about the supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her
at that part of the evening.  But it was not to be avoided:
he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there
was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes,
when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable,
and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit.
But still his attentions made no part of her satisfaction.
She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes
that she could walk about with him and hear his account
of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired;
and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still
to look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening,
her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective.
She was happy even when they did take place; but not from
any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions
of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from
being the friend with whom it could find repose.
"I am worn out with civility," said he.  "I have been
talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.
But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace.  You will not
want to be talked to.  Let us have the luxury of silence."
Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement.  A weariness,
arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings
which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected, and they went down their two dances together
with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on
that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his
younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure.  Miss Crawford
had been in gay spirits when they first danced together,
but it was not her gaiety that could do him good:
it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards,
for he found himself still impelled to seek her again,
she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging.
They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned,
she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with
mutual vexation.  Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from
observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied.
It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.
Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very
conviction that he did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination
and strength for more were pretty well at an end;
and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance
down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at
her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.
From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her,
and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon
she is knocked up!  Why, the sport is but just begun.
I hope we shall keep it up these two hours.  How can you
be tired so soon?"

"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his
watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock,
and your sister is not used to these sort of hours."

"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before
I go.  Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me."

"Oh!  William."

"What!  Did she think of being up before you set off?"

"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat
to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him.
It will be the last time, you know; the last morning."

"You had better not.  He is to have breakfasted and be
gone by half-past nine.  Mr. Crawford, I think you call
for him at half-past nine?"

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her
eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!"
which was permission.

"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the
latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual,
for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_."
And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate
house to hurry from.  Your brother will find my ideas
of time and his own very different to-morrow."

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford
to join the early breakfast party in that house
instead of eating alone:  he should himself be of it;
and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted
convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess
to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung,
were well founded.  Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny.
He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be.  His niece,
meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done.
She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning.
It would have been an unspeakable indulgence.  But though
her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring
within her.  On the contrary, she was so totally unused
to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take
place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more
disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point
so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering
a little with her inclination, by advising her to go
immediately to bed.  "Advise" was his word, but it
was the advice of absolute power, and she had only
to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus,
pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like
the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more,"
to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five
or six determined couple who were still hard at work;
and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase,
pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes
and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued,
restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything,
that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not
be thinking merely of her health.  It might occur to him
that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough,
or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing
her persuadableness.



CHAPTER XXIX

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too;
the last kiss was given, and William was gone.
Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual,
and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked
back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart
to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle
kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps,
that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise
her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork
bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide
her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's.
She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended,
but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.
William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted
half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes
unconnected with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think
of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness
of her own small house, without reproaching herself
for some little want of attention to her when they had
been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything
by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day.  Soon after the second
breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted
his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone.
Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she
had nobody to share in.  She talked to her aunt Bertram--
she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen
so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity,
that it was heavy work.  Lady Bertram was not certain of
anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own.
"She could not recollect what it was that she had heard
about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady
Prescott had noticed in Fanny:  she was not sure whether
Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of
William when he said he was the finest young man in the room--
somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgot
to ask Sir Thomas what it could be."  And these were her
longest speeches and clearest communications:  the rest
was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he?
I did not see _that_; I should not know one from the other."
This was very bad.  It was only better than Mrs. Norris's
sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home
with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid,
there was peace and good-humour in their little party,
though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day.  "I cannot think
what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram,
when the tea-things were removed.  "I feel quite stupid.
It must be sitting up so late last night.  Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake.  I cannot work.
Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage
with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading
to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next
two hours beyond the reckonings of the game--"And _that_
makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib.
You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?"  Fanny thought
and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours
had made in that room, and all that part of the house.
Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion,
noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of
the drawing-room, and everywhere.  Now it was languor,
and all but solitude.

A good night's rest improved her spirits.  She could think
of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning
afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night
with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style,
with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the
laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade
of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind
without much effort into its everyday state, and easily
conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever
known there for a whole day together, and _he_ was gone
on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family
meeting and every meal chiefly depended.  But this must
be learned to be endured.  He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room
with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions,
and even answer them, without such wretched feelings
as she had formerly known.

"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation
on both the first and second day, as they formed their
very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration
of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was said
on the first day than to drink their good health;
but on the second it led to something farther.
William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for.
"And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir Thomas,
"but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent.
As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him.
This will be the last winter of his belonging to us,
as he has done."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away.
They are all going away, I think.  I wish they would stay
at home."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had
just applied for permission to go to town with Maria;
and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the
permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her own
good-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting
the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return,
which would otherwise have taken place about this time.
A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side,
tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement.
Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel was
advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate
mother _must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment
was attributed to her nature.  Lady Bertram agreed to it
all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of
an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,
"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we
took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel
the good of it."

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding,
"Very true.  We shew Fanny what a good girl we think
her by praising her to her face, she is now a very
valuable companion.  If we have been kind to _her_,
she is now quite as necessary to _us_."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort
to think that we shall always have _her_."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece,
and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope,
till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise
her greater happiness than she knows here."

"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas.
Who should invite her?  Maria might be very glad to see her
at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking
her to live there; and I am sure she is better off here;
and besides, I cannot do without her."

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the
great house in Mansfield had a very different character at
the Parsonage.  To the young lady, at least, in each family,
it brought very different feelings.  What was tranquillity
and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary.
Something arose from difference of disposition and habit:
one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure;
but still more might be imputed to difference
of circumstances.  In some points of interest they
were exactly opposed to each other.  To Fanny's mind,
Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency,
a relief.  To Mary it was every way painful.  She felt
the want of his society every day, almost every hour,
and was too much in want of it to derive anything but
irritation from considering the object for which he went.
He could not have devised anything more likely to raise
his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as
it did at the very time of her brother's going away,
of William Price's going too, and completing the sort
of general break-up of a party which had been so animated.
She felt it keenly.  They were now a miserable trio,
confined within doors by a series of rain and snow,
with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.  Angry as
she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions,
and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been
so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball),
she could not help thinking of him continually when absent,
dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again
for the almost daily meetings they lately had.  His absence
was unnecessarily long.  He should not have planned such
an absence--he should not have left home for a week,
when her own departure from Mansfield was so near.
Then she began to blame herself.  She wished she had not
spoken so warmly in their last conversation.  She was afraid
she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions
in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been.
It was ill-bred; it was wrong.  She wished such words unsaid
with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week.  All this was bad,
but she had still more to feel when Friday came round
again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still
no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication
with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return,
having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had
been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong
effect on him--she now felt and feared it all tenfold more.
She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion
entirely new to her--jealousy.  His friend Mr. Owen had sisters;
he might find them attractive.  But, at any rate, his staying
away at a time when, according to all preceding plans,
she was to remove to London, meant something that she could
not bear.  Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing,
at the end of three or four days, she should now have
been leaving Mansfield.  It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more.
She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness;
and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties
of walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before,
for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the
sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram
were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could
hope for nothing.  But at last Lady Bertram left the room,
and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began,
with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And how do
_you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long?
Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_
as the greatest sufferer.  You must miss him.  Does his
staying longer surprise you?"

"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly.  "Yes; I had
not particularly expected it."

"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.
It is the general way all young men do."

"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."

"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--
a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help
being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I
go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case.
I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he
comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield.
I should like to have seen him once more, I confess.
But you must give my compliments to him.  Yes; I think it must
be compliments.  Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price,
in our language--a something between compliments and--
and love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have
had together?  So many months' acquaintance!  But compliments
may be sufficient here.  Was his letter a long one?
Does he give you much account of what he is doing?
Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle;
but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was
but a few lines.  All that I heard was that his friend
had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed
to do so.  A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer;
I am not quite sure which."

"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might
have been to Lady Bertram or you.  But if he wrote to
his father, no wonder he was concise.  Who could write
chat to Sir Thomas?  If he had written to you, there would
have been more particulars.  You would have heard of
balls and parties.  He would have sent you a description
of everything and everybody.  How many Miss Owens are there?"

"Three grown up."

"Are they musical?"

"I do not at all know.  I never heard."

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford,
trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every
woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another.
But it is very foolish to ask questions about any
young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up;
for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are:
all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty.
There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing.
Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp;
and all sing, or would sing if they were taught,
or sing all the better for not being taught; or something
like it."

"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say.
Never did tone express indifference plainer.  Indeed, how can
one care for those one has never seen?  Well, when your
cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet;
all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself.
I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time
draws near.  She does not like my going."

Fanny felt obliged to speak.  "You cannot doubt your being
missed by many," said she.  "You will be very much missed."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear
or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed
as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away;
that is, there is a great difference felt.  But I am
not fishing; don't compliment me.  If I _am_ missed,
it will appear.  I may be discovered by those who want
to see me.  I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant,
or unapproachable region."

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss
Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear
some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she
thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again.

"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you
were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey;
how should you like it?  Stranger things have happened.
I dare say they are trying for it.  And they are quite
in the light, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them.  I do not at all wonder or blame them.  It is
everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can.
Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their
own line.  Their father is a clergyman, and their brother
is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them.
You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak.
But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?"

"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity.
"I wonder at that.  But I dare say you know exactly--
I always imagine you are--perhaps you do not think him
likely to marry at all--or not at present."

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err
either in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater
spirit from the blush soon produced from such a look,
only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.



CHAPTER XXX

Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by
this conversation, and she walked home again in spirits
which might have defied almost another week of the same
small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother
down from London again in quite, or more than quite,
his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing farther to try
her own.  His still refusing to tell her what he had gone
for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it
might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--
suspected only of concealing something planned as a pleasant
surprise to herself.  And the next day _did_ bring a
surprise to her.  Henry had said he should just go and ask
the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes,
but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister,
who had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden,
met him at last most impatiently in the sweep, and cried out,
"My dear Henry, where can you have been all this time?"
he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.

"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his,
and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was:
"I could not get away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely!
I am quite determined, Mary.  My mind is entirely made up.
Will it astonish you?  No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever
his consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having
any such views had never entered his sister's imagination;
and she looked so truly the astonishment she felt, that he
was obliged to repeat what he had said, and more fully
and more solemnly.  The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome.  There was even
pleasure with the surprise.  Mary was in a state of mind
to rejoice in a connexion with the Bertram family,
and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying
a little beneath him.

"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance.  "I am
fairly caught.  You know with what idle designs I began;
but this is the end of them.  I have, I flatter myself,
made no inconsiderable progress in her affections;
but my own are entirely fixed."

"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak;
"what a match for her!  My dearest Henry, this must
be my _first_ feeling; but my _second_, which you shall
have as sincerely, is, that I approve your choice from
my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I
wish and desire it.  You will have a sweet little wife;
all gratitude and devotion.  Exactly what you deserve.
What an amazing match for her!  Mrs. Norris often talks
of her luck; what will she say now?  The delight of all
the family, indeed!  And she has some _true_ friends in it!
How _they_ will rejoice!  But tell me all about it!
Talk to me for ever.  When did you begin to think seriously
about her?"

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such
a question, though nothing could be more agreeable than
to have it asked.  "How the pleasing plague had stolen
on him" he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words
three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with,
"Ah, my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London!
This was your business!  You chose to consult the Admiral
before you made up your mind."

But this he stoutly denied.  He knew his uncle too well
to consult him on any matrimonial scheme.  The Admiral
hated marriage, and thought it never pardonable in a young
man of independent fortune.

"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat
on her.  She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice
of such a man as the Admiral, for she he would describe,
if indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody
his own ideas.  But till it is absolutely settled--
settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing
of the matter.  No, Mary, you are quite mistaken.
You have not discovered my business yet."

"Well, well, I am satisfied.  I know now to whom
it must relate, and am in no hurry for the rest.
Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful!  That Mansfield
should have done so much for--that _you_ should have
found your fate in Mansfield!  But you are quite right;
you could not have chosen better.  There is not a better
girl in the world, and you do not want for fortune;
and as to her connexions, they are more than good.
The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people
in this country.  She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram;
that will be enough for the world.  But go on, go on.
Tell me more.  What are your plans?  Does she know her
own happiness?"

"No."

"What are you waiting for?"

"For--for very little more than opportunity.  Mary, she is
not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."

"Oh no! you cannot.  Were you even less pleasing--
supposing her not to love you already (of which,
however, I can have little doubt)--you would be safe.
The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would
secure her all your own immediately.  From my soul I do
not think she would marry you _without_ love; that is,
if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced
by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you,
and she will never have the heart to refuse."

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence,
he was as happy to tell as she could be to listen;
and a conversation followed almost as deeply interesting
to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing
to relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on
but Fanny's charms.  Fanny's beauty of face and figure,
Fanny's graces of manner and goodness of heart, were the
exhaustless theme.  The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness
of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth
in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves
where it is not, he can never believe it absent.
Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise.
He had often seen it tried.  Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other
continually exercised her patience and forbearance?
Her affections were evidently strong.  To see her with
her brother!  What could more delightfully prove that
the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness?
What could be more encouraging to a man who had her love
in view?  Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion,
quick and clear; and her manners were the mirror of
her own modest and elegant mind.  Nor was this all.
Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good
principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed
to serious reflection to know them by their proper name;
but when he talked of her having such a steadiness
and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour,
and such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man
in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her
being well principled and religious.

"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he;
"and _that_ is what I want."

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his
opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits,
rejoice in her prospects.

"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced
that you are doing quite right; and though I should never have
selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you,
I am now persuaded she is the very one to make you happy.
Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever
thought indeed.  You will both find your good in it."

"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature;
but I did not know her then; and she shall have no reason
to lament the hour that first put it into my head.
I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has ever
yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else.  I will not
take her from Northamptonshire.  I shall let Everingham,
and rent a place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge.
I shall let a seven years' lease of Everingham.
I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word.
I could name three people now, who would give me my own
terms and thank me."

"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire!
That is pleasant!  Then we shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself,
and wished it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion;
for her brother saw her only as the supposed inmate
of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her
in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim
the best right in her.

"You must give us more than half your time," said he.
"I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with
Fanny and myself, for we shall both have a right in you.
Fanny will be so truly your sister!"

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances;
but she was now very fully purposed to be the guest of
neither brother nor sister many months longer.

"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"

"Yes."

"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of
your own:  no longer with the Admiral.  My dearest Henry,
the advantage to you of getting away from the Admiral
before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions,
or learned to sit over your dinner as if it were the best
blessing of life!  _You_ are not sensible of the gain,
for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation,
your marrying early may be the saving of you.  To have seen
you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture,
would have broken my heart."

"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here.
The Admiral has his faults, but he is a very good man,
and has been more than a father to me.  Few fathers would
have let me have my own way half so much.  You must
not prejudice Fanny against him.  I must have them love
one another."

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could
not be two persons in existence whose characters and manners
were less accordant:  time would discover it to him;
but she could not help _this_ reflection on the Admiral.
"Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I could
suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason
which my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name,
I would prevent the marriage, if possible; but I know you:
I know that a wife you _loved_ would be the happiest
of women, and that even when you ceased to love, she would
yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of
a gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to
make Fanny Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price,
was of course the groundwork of his eloquent answer.

"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued,
"attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience to
all the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her,
and for her, her colour beautifully heightened as she
leant over the work, then returning to her seat to finish
a note which she was previously engaged in writing
for that stupid woman's service, and all this with such
unpretending gentleness, so much as if it were a matter
of course that she was not to have a moment at her
own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she
now and then shook back, and in the midst of all this,
still speaking at intervals to _me_, or listening,
and as if she liked to listen, to what I said.
Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied
the possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing."

"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling
in his face, "how glad I am to see you so much in love!
It quite delights me.  But what will Mrs. Rushworth and
Julia say?"

"I care neither what they say nor what they feel.
They will now see what sort of woman it is that can attach me,
that can attach a man of sense.  I wish the discovery
may do them any good.  And they will now see their cousin
treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.
They will be angry," he added, after a moment's silence,
and in a cooler tone; "Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry.
It will be a bitter pill to her; that is, like other
bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb
as to suppose her feelings more lasting than other women's,
though _I_ was the object of them.  Yes, Mary, my Fanny
will feel a difference indeed:  a daily, hourly difference,
in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know
that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to give
the consequence so justly her due.  Now she is dependent,
helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."

"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless
or forgotten.  Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."

"Edmund!  True, I believe he is, generally speaking,
kind to her, and so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is
the way of a rich, superior, long-worded, arbitrary uncle.
What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together do, what do they
_do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do?"



CHAPTER XXXI

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning,
and at an earlier hour than common visiting warrants.
The two ladies were together in the breakfast-room, and,
fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the very point
of quitting it as he entered.  She was almost at the door,
and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain,
she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence
about being waited for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know"
to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off,
and without losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny,
and, taking out some letters, said, with a most animated look,
"I must acknowledge myself infinitely obliged to any creature
who gives me such an opportunity of seeing you alone:
I have been wishing it more than you can have any idea.
Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could
hardly have borne that any one in the house should share
with you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring.
He is made.  Your brother is a lieutenant.  I have
the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on your
brother's promotion.  Here are the letters which announce it,
this moment come to hand.  You will, perhaps, like to see them."

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak.
To see the expression of her eyes, the change
of her complexion, the progress of her feelings,
their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough.
She took the letters as he gave them.  The first was
from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words,
of his having succeeded in the object he had undertaken,
the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more,
one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend,
whom the Admiral had set to work in the business,
the other from that friend to himself, by which it
appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness
of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles;
that Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an
opportunity of proving his regard for Admiral Crawford,
and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's commission
as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made
out was spreading general joy through a wide circle
of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters,
her eye running from one to the other, and her heart
swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued,
with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the event--

"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as
it is, for I think only of yours.  Compared with you,
who has a right to be happy?  I have almost grudged myself
my own prior knowledge of what you ought to have known
before all the world.  I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been
since a moment's delay.  How impatient, how anxious,
how wild I have been on the subject, I will not attempt
to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed,
in not having it finished while I was in London!
I was kept there from day to day in the hope of it,
for nothing less dear to me than such an object would
have detained me half the time from Mansfield.
But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately,
there were difficulties from the absence of one friend,
and the engagements of another, which at last I could no longer
bear to stay the end of, and knowing in what good hands I
left the cause, I came away on Monday, trusting that many
posts would not pass before I should be followed by such
very letters as these.  My uncle, who is the very best man
in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would,
after seeing your brother.  He was delighted with him.
I would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted,
or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his praise.
I deferred it all till his praise should be proved
the praise of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it.
_Now_ I may say that even I could not require William
Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most
voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had
passed together."

"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny.
"Good heaven! how very, very kind!  Have you really--
was it by _your_ desire?  I beg your pardon, but I
am bewildered.  Did Admiral Crawford apply?  How was it?
I am stupefied."

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible,
by beginning at an earlier stage, and explaining very
particularly what he had done.  His last journey to London
had been undertaken with no other view than that of
introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing
on the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might
have for getting him on.  This had been his business.
He had communicated it to no creature:  he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain
of the issue, he could not have borne any participation
of his feelings, but this had been his business; and he
spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude had been,
and used such strong expressions, was so abounding
in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_,
in _views_ _and_ _wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_,
that Fanny could not have remained insensible of his drift,
had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full
and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen
but imperfectly even to what he told her of William,
and saying only when he paused, "How kind! how very kind!
Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you!
Dearest, dearest William!"  She jumped up and moved in haste
towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle.
My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible."  But this
could not be suffered.  The opportunity was too fair,
and his feelings too impatient.  He was after her immediately.
"She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer,"
and he took her hand and led her back to her seat,
and was in the middle of his farther explanation,
before she had suspected for what she was detained.
When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which
his heart had never known before, and that everything
he had done for William was to be placed to the account
of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her,
she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments
unable to speak.  She considered it all as nonsense,
as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant only to deceive
for the hour; she could not but feel that it was treating
her improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she
had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely
of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would
not allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt,
because he had been conferring an obligation, which no
want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle to her.
While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude
on William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful
of anything that injured only herself; and after having
twice drawn back her hand, and twice attempted in vain
to turn away from him, she got up, and said only,
with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I
beg you would not.  This is a sort of talking which is very
unpleasant to me.  I must go away.  I cannot bear it."
But he was still talking on, describing his affection,
soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain
as to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself,
hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance.  It was so;
he had said it.  Her astonishment and confusion increased;
and though still not knowing how to suppose him serious,
she could hardly stand.  He pressed for an answer.

"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face.  "This is all nonsense.
Do not distress me.  I can hear no more of this.
Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you
than words can express; but I do not want, I cannot bear,
I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me.
But you are _not_ thinking of me.  I know it is all nothing."

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas
was heard speaking to a servant in his way towards the room
they were in.  It was no time for farther assurances
or entreaty, though to part with her at a moment when her
modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured mind,
to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a
cruel necessity.  She rushed out at an opposite door
from the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking
up and down the East room in the utmost confusion
of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness
or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning
of the joyful intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything;
agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged,
absolutely angry.  It was all beyond belief!
He was inexcusable, incomprehensible!  But such were
his habits that he could do nothing without a mixture
of evil.  He had previously made her the happiest
of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it.
She would not have him be serious, and yet what could
excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to
trifle?

But William was a lieutenant.  _That_ was a fact beyond
a doubt, and without an alloy.  She would think of it
for ever and forget all the rest.  Mr. Crawford would
certainly never address her so again:  he must have
seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case,
how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship
to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than
the head of the great staircase, till she had satisfied
herself of Mr. Crawford's having left the house;
but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go
down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness
of his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit
of his information or his conjectures as to what would
now be William's destination.  Sir Thomas was as joyful
as she could desire, and very kind and communicative;
and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William
as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her,
till she found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford
was engaged to return and dine there that very day.
This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might
think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite
distressing to her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard,
as the dinner hour approached, to feel and appear as usual;
but it was quite impossible for her not to look most shy
and uncomfortable when their visitor entered the room.
She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence
of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on
the first day of hearing of William's promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close
to her.  He had a note to deliver from his sister.
Fanny could not look at him, but there was no consciousness
of past folly in his voice.  She opened her note immediately,
glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read it,
to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was
also to dine there, screened her a little from view.

"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you,
to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling
at _Miss_ _Price_ for at least the last six weeks--
I cannot let my brother go without sending you a few lines
of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent
and approval.  Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear;
there can be no difficulties worth naming.  I chuse to
suppose that the assurance of my consent will be something;
so you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles
this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier
than he goes.--Yours affectionately, M. C."

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good;
for though she read in too much haste and confusion
to form the clearest judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning,
it was evident that she meant to compliment her on her
brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe
it serious.  She did not know what to do, or what to think.
There was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious;
there was perplexity and agitation every way.
She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her,
and he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid
there was a something in his voice and manner in addressing
her very different from what they were when he talked
to the others.  Her comfort in that day's dinner
was quite destroyed:  she could hardly eat anything;
and when Sir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had
taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame,
from the dread of Mr. Crawford's interpretation;
for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes
to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_
were immediately directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever.  She would hardly join
even when William was the subject, for his commission
came all from the right hand too, and there was pain
in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began
to be in despair of ever getting away; but at last they
were in the drawing-room, and she was able to think
as she would, while her aunts finished the subject
of William's appointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving
it would be to Sir Thomas as with any part of it.
"_Now_ William would be able to keep himself, which would
make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was unknown
how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make
some difference in _her_ presents too.  She was very glad
that she had given William what she did at parting,
very glad, indeed, that it had been in her power,
without material inconvenience, just at that time to give
him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_,
with _her_ limited means, for now it would all be useful
in helping to fit up his cabin.  She knew he must be at
some expense, that he would have many things to buy,
though to be sure his father and mother would be able
to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap;
but she was very glad she had contributed her mite
towards it."

"I am glad you gave him something considerable,"
said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious calmness,
"for _I_ gave him only 10."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening.  "Upon my word,
he must have gone off with his pockets well lined,
and at no expense for his journey to London either!"

"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough."

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question
its sufficiency, began to take the matter in another point.

"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost
their friends, what with bringing them up and putting them
out in the world!  They little think how much it comes to,
or what their parents, or their uncles and aunts, pay for
them in the course of the year.  Now, here are my sister
Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year,
to say nothing of what _I_ do for them."

"Very true, sister, as you say.  But, poor things!
they cannot help it; and you know it makes very little
difference to Sir Thomas.  Fanny, William must not forget
my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give
him a commission for anything else that is worth having.
I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl.
I think I will have two shawls, Fanny."

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it,
was very earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss
Crawford were at.  There was everything in the world
_against_ their being serious but his words and manner.
Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;
all their habits and ways of thinking, and all
her own demerits.  How could _she_ have excited
serious attachment in a man who had seen so many,
and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many,
infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open
to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken
to please him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly,
so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything
to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister,
with all her high and worldly notions of matrimony,
would be forwarding anything of a serious nature in such
a quarter?  Nothing could be more unnatural in either.
Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts.  Everything might
be possible rather than serious attachment, or serious
approbation of it toward her.  She had quite convinced herself
of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford joined them.
The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite
so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room;
for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she
did not know how to class among the common meaning;
in any other man, at least, she would have said
that it meant something very earnest, very pointed.
But she still tried to believe it no more than what he
might often have expressed towards her cousins and fifty
other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard
by the rest.  She fancied he was trying for it the
whole evening at intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was
out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris,
and she carefully refused him every opportunity.

At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness,
though not remarkably late--he began to talk of going away;
but the comfort of the sound was impaired by his turning
to her the next moment, and saying, "Have you nothing to send
to Mary?  No answer to her note?  She will be disappointed
if she receives nothing from you.  Pray write to her,
if it be only a line."

"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste,
the haste of embarrassment and of wanting to get away--
"I will write directly."

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the
habit of writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials
without knowing what in the world to say.  She had read
Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to reply to
anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had
there been time for scruples and fears as to style she
would have felt them in abundance:  but something must
be instantly written; and with only one decided feeling,
that of wishing not to appear to think anything really intended,
she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--

"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford,
for your kind congratulations, as far as they relate to my
dearest William.  The rest of your note I know means nothing;
but I am so unequal to anything of the sort, that I hope
you will excuse my begging you to take no farther notice.
I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand
his manners; if he understood me as well, he would,
I dare say, behave differently.  I do not know what I write,
but it would be a great favour of you never to mention
the subject again.  With thanks for the honour of your note,
I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing
fright, for she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence
of receiving the note, was coming towards her.

"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he,
in an undervoice, perceiving the amazing trepidation
with which she made up the note, "you cannot think
I have any such object.  Do not hurry yourself, I entreat."

"Oh!  I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will
be ready in a moment; I am very much obliged to you;
if you will be so good as to give _that_ to Miss Crawford."

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she
instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace,
where sat the others, he had nothing to do but to go
in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation,
both of pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure
was not of a sort to die with the day; for every day
would restore the knowledge of William's advancement,
whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more.
She had no doubt that her note must appear excessively
ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child,
for her distress had allowed no arrangement; but at least
it would assure them both of her being neither imposed
on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.



CHAPTER XXXII

Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she
awoke the next morning; but she remembered the purport
of her note, and was not less sanguine as to its effect
than she had been the night before.  If Mr. Crawford would
but go away!  That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do,
and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do.
And why it was not done already she could not devise,
for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay.  Fanny had hoped,
in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take
place ere long.

Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note
would convey, she could not but be astonished to see
Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally did, coming up to the
house again, and at an hour as early as the day before.
His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she
must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then
on her way upstairs, she resolved there to remain,
during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent for;
and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed
little danger of her being wanted.

She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening,
trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment;
but as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew
gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to
employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come
and would go without her being obliged to know anything of the
matter.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing
very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step
in regular approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual
step in that part of the house:  it was her uncle's;
she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it
as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his
coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject.
It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked
if she were there, and if he might come in.  The terror
of his former occasional visits to that room seemed
all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine
her again in French and English.

She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him,
and trying to appear honoured; and, in her agitation,
had quite overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he,
stopping short as he entered, said, with much surprise,
"Why have you no fire to-day?"

There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl.
She hesitated.

"I am not cold, sir:  I never sit here long at this time
of year."

"But you have a fire in general?"

"No, sir."

"How comes this about?  Here must be some mistake.
I understood that you had the use of this room by way
of making you perfectly comfortable.  In your bedchamber
I know you _cannot_ have a fire.  Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified.  It is highly
unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day,
without a fire.  You are not strong.  You are chilly.
Your aunt cannot be aware of this."

Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged
to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt
she loved best, from saying something in which the words
"my aunt Norris" were distinguishable.

"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself,
and not wanting to hear more:  "I understand.  Your aunt
Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously,
for young people's being brought up without unnecessary
indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything.
She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others.
And on another account, too, I can perfectly comprehend.
I know what her sentiments have always been.
The principle was good in itself, but it may have been,
and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case.
I am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points,
a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny,
to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account.
You have an understanding which will prevent you from
receiving things only in part, and judging partially
by the event.  You will take in the whole of the past,
you will consider times, persons, and probabilities,
and you will feel that _they_ were not least your
friends who were educating and preparing you for that
mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot.
Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary,
it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured,
that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little
privations and restrictions that may have been imposed.
I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you,
by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris
with the respect and attention that are due to her.
But enough of this.  Sit down, my dear.  I must speak
to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain
you long."

Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising.
After a moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress
a smile, went on.

"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor
this morning.  I had not been long in my own room,
after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in.
His errand you may probably conjecture."

Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle,
perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that
made either speaking or looking up quite impossible,
turned away his own eyes, and without any farther pause
proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.

Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself
the lover of Fanny, make decided proposals for her,
and entreat the sanction of the uncle, who seemed to stand
in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so well,
so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas,
feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks
to have been very much to the purpose, was exceedingly
happy to give the particulars of their conversation;
and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind,
conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her
far more than himself.  He talked, therefore, for several
minutes without Fanny's daring to interrupt him.
She had hardly even attained the wish to do it.  Her mind
was in too much confusion.  She had changed her position;
and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows,
was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation
and dismay.  For a moment he ceased, but she had barely
become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he said,
"And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,
and shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured
and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing
on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot
but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself,
I must submit to your finding one still better worth
listening to.  Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen,
is yet in the house.  He is in my room, and hoping to see
you there."

There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this,
which astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of
astonishment on hearing her exclaim--"Oh! no, sir, I cannot,
indeed I cannot go down to him.  Mr. Crawford ought to know--
he must know that:  I told him enough yesterday to convince him;
he spoke to me on this subject yesterday, and I told him
without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
and quite out of my power to return his good opinion."

"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting
down again.  "Out of your power to return his good opinion?
What is all this?  I know he spoke to you yesterday,
and (as far as I understand) received as much encouragement
to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit
herself to give.  I was very much pleased with what I
collected to have been your behaviour on the occasion;
it shewed a discretion highly to be commended.  But now,
when he has made his overtures so properly, and honourably--
what are your scruples _now_?"

"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety
of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong;
"you are quite mistaken.  How could Mr. Crawford say
such a thing?  I gave him no encouragement yesterday.
On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect my exact words,
but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,
that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that
I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again.
I am sure I said as much as that and more; and I should
have said still more, if I had been quite certain of his
meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be,
I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended.
I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_."

She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.

"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments'
silence, "that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes, sir."

"Refuse him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Refuse Mr. Crawford!  Upon what plea?  For what reason?"

"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."

"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of
calm displeasure.  "There is something in this which my
comprehension does not reach.  Here is a young man wishing
to pay his addresses to you, with everything to recommend him:
not merely situation in life, fortune, and character,
but with more than common agreeableness, with address
and conversation pleasing to everybody.  And he is not an
acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time.
His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has
been doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose
would have been almost sufficient recommendation to you,
had there been no other.  It is very uncertain when my
interest might have got William on.  He has done it already."

"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down
with fresh shame; and she did feel almost ashamed
of herself, after such a picture as her uncle had drawn,
for not liking Mr. Crawford.

"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas presently,
"you must have been some time aware of a particularity
in Mr. Crawford's manners to you.  This cannot have taken
you by surprise.  You must have observed his attentions;
and though you always received them very properly (I have
no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them
to be unpleasant to you.  I am half inclined to think,
Fanny, that you do not quite know your own feelings."

"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do.  His attentions were always--
what I did not like."

Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise.
"This is beyond me," said he.  "This requires explanation.
Young as you are, and having seen scarcely any one,
it is hardly possible that your affections--"

He paused and eyed her fixedly.  He saw her lips
formed into a _no_, though the sound was inarticulate,
but her face was like scarlet.  That, however, in so
modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;
and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added,
"No, no, I know _that_ is quite out of the question;
quite impossible.  Well, there is nothing more to be said."

And for a few minutes he did say nothing.  He was deep
in thought.  His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to
harden and prepare herself against farther questioning.
She would rather die than own the truth; and she hoped,
by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond
betraying it.

"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_
seemed to justify" said Sir Thomas, beginning again,
and very composedly, "his wishing to marry at all so
early is recommendatory to me.  I am an advocate for
early marriages, where there are means in proportion,
and would have every young man, with a sufficient income,
settle as soon after four-and-twenty as he can.  This is
so much my opinion, that I am sorry to think how little
likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram,
is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,
matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts.
I wish he were more likely to fix."  Here was a glance
at Fanny.  "Edmund, I consider, from his dispositions
and habits, as much more likely to marry early than
his brother.  _He_, indeed, I have lately thought,
has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced,
my eldest son has not.  Am I right?  Do you agree with me,
my dear?"

"Yes, sir."

It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was
easy on the score of the cousins.  But the removal of his
alarm did his niece no service:  as her unaccountableness
was confirmed his displeasure increased; and getting up
and walking about the room with a frown, which Fanny could
picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes,
he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said,
"Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's
temper?"

"No, sir."

She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her
heart sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion,
explanation, and probably non-conviction. Her ill opinion
of him was founded chiefly on observations, which,
for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare mention
to their father.  Maria and Julia, and especially Maria,
were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct,
that she could not give his character, such as she
believed it, without betraying them.  She had hoped that,
to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable,
so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_
on her side would have been sufficient.  To her infinite
grief she found it was not.

Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat
in trembling wretchedness, and with a good deal of
cold sternness, said, "It is of no use, I perceive,
to talk to you.  We had better put an end to this
most mortifying conference.  Mr. Crawford must not be
kept longer waiting.  I will, therefore, only add,
as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of your conduct,
that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed,
and proved yourself of a character the very reverse
of what I had supposed.  For I _had_, Fanny, as I think
my behaviour must have shewn, formed a very favourable
opinion of you from the period of my return to England.
I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper,
self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence
of spirit which prevails so much in modern days,
even in young women, and which in young women is offensive
and disgusting beyond all common offence.  But you
have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse;
that you can and will decide for yourself, without any
consideration or deference for those who have surely some
right to guide you, without even asking their advice.
You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything
that I had imagined.  The advantage or disadvantage of
your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters,
never seems to have had a moment's share in your thoughts
on this occasion.  How _they_ might be benefited,
how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you,
is nothing to _you_.  You think only of yourself,
and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a
young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness,
you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing
even for a little time to consider of it, a little more
time for cool consideration, and for really examining
your own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly,
throwing away from you such an opportunity of being
settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled,
as will, probably, never occur to you again.  Here is a
young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners,
and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking
your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way;
and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years
longer in the world without being addressed by a man of half
Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his merits.
Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters
on him.  Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford
sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with
superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave
Maria's to Mr. Rushworth."  After half a moment's pause:
"And I should have been very much surprised had either
of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage at any
time which might carry with it only _half_ the eligibility
of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying
my opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation,
put a decided negative on it.  I should have been much
surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding.  I should
have thought it a gross violation of duty and respect.
_You_ are not to be judged by the same rule.  You do not
owe me the duty of a child.  But, Fanny, if your heart
can acquit you of _ingratitude_--"

He ceased.  Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that,
angry as he was, he would not press that article farther.
Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what
she appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy,
so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful.
He thought her all this.  She had deceived his expectations;
she had lost his good opinion.  What was to become
of her?

"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears,
"I am very sorry indeed."

"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably
have reason to be long sorry for this day's transactions."

"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she,
with another strong effort; "but I am so perfectly
convinced that I could never make him happy, and that I
should be miserable myself."

Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst,
and in spite of that great black word _miserable_,
which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas began to think
a little relenting, a little change of inclination,
might have something to do with it; and to augur favourably
from the personal entreaty of the young man himself.
He knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous;
and thought it not improbable that her mind might be
in such a state as a little time, a little pressing,
a little patience, and a little impatience, a judicious
mixture of all on the lover's side, might work their
usual effect on.  If the gentleman would but persevere,
if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began
to have hopes; and these reflections having passed across
his mind and cheered it, "Well," said he, in a tone
of becoming gravity, but of less anger, "well, child,
dry up your tears.  There is no use in these tears;
they can do no good.  You must now come downstairs with me.
Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already.
You must give him your own answer:  we cannot expect him
to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to him
the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which,
unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed.  I am
totally unequal to it."

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the
idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a
little consideration, judged it better to indulge her.
His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small
depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece,
and saw the state of feature and complexion which her
crying had brought her into, he thought there might
be as much lost as gained by an immediate interview.
With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning,
he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit
and cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder.  The past, present, future,
everything was terrible.  But her uncle's anger gave
her the severest pain of all.  Selfish and ungrateful!
to have appeared so to him!  She was miserable for ever.
She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak
for her.  Her only friend was absent.  He might have
softened his father; but all, perhaps all, would think
her selfish and ungrateful.  She might have to endure
the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it,
or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her.
She could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford;
yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too!
It was all wretchedness together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned;
she was almost ready to faint at the sight of him.
He spoke calmly, however, without austerity, without reproach,
and she revived a little.  There was comfort, too,
in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,
"Mr. Crawford is gone:  he has just left me.  I need not
repeat what has passed.  I do not want to add to anything
you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt.
Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike
and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most
favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper.
Upon my representation of what you were suffering,
he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy,
ceased to urge to see you for the present."

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again.  "Of course,"
continued her uncle, "it cannot be supposed but that he should
request to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes;
a request too natural, a claim too just to be denied.
But there is no time fixed; perhaps to-morrow, or whenever
your spirits are composed enough.  For the present you
have only to tranquillise yourself.  Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you.  If, as I am willing to suppose,
you wish to shew me any observance, you will not give
way to these emotions, but endeavour to reason yourself
into a stronger frame of mind.  I advise you to go out:
the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel;
you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the
better for air and exercise.  And, Fanny" (turning back
again for a moment), "I shall make no mention below of
what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram.
There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment;
say nothing about it yourself."

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was
an act of kindness which Fanny felt at her heart.
To be spared from her aunt Norris's interminable
reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.
Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches.
Even to see Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended,
and followed his advice throughout, as far as she could;
did check her tears; did earnestly try to compose her spirits
and strengthen her mind.  She wished to prove to him that she
did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favour;
and he had given her another strong motive for exertion,
in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts.
Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now
an object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost
anything that might save her from her aunt Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her
walk and going into the East room again, the first thing
which caught her eye was a fire lighted and burning.
A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time to be giving
her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude.
She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think
of such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary
information of the housemaid, who came in to attend it,
that so it was to be every day.  Sir Thomas had given
orders for it.

"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!"
said she, in soliloquy.  "Heaven defend me from
being ungrateful!"

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris,
till they met at dinner.  Her uncle's behaviour to her
was then as nearly as possible what it had been before;
she was sure he did not mean there should be any change,
and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy any;
but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she
found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked
out without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on,
she felt all the reason she had to bless the kindness
which saved her from the same spirit of reproach,
exerted on a more momentous subject.

"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you
just to go as far as my house with some orders for Nanny,"
said she, "which I have since, to my very great inconvenience,
been obliged to go and carry myself.  I could very ill
spare the time, and you might have saved me the trouble,
if you would only have been so good as to let us know you
were going out.  It would have made no difference to you,
I suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone
to my house."

"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,"
said Sir Thomas.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check,
"that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not
know how dry the path is to my house.  Fanny would have
had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the
advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt:
it is all her fault.  If she would but have let us know
she was going out but there is a something about Fanny,
I have often observed it before--she likes to go her
own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to;
she takes her own independent walk whenever she can;
she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence,
and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get
the better of."

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought
nothing could be more unjust, though he had been so lately
expressing the same sentiments himself, and he tried to turn
the conversation:  tried repeatedly before he could succeed;
for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive,
either now, or at any other time, to what degree he
thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from
wishing to have his own children's merits set off by
the depreciation of hers.  She was talking _at_ Fanny,
and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with
more composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits
than she could have hoped for after so stormy a morning;
but she trusted, in the first place, that she had done right:
that her judgment had not misled her.  For the purity
of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing
to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating,
and would abate farther as he considered the matter with
more impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel,
how wretched, and how unpardonable, how hopeless,
and how wicked it was to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the
morrow was past, she could not but flatter herself that
the subject would be finally concluded, and Mr. Crawford
once gone from Mansfield, that everything would soon
be as if no such subject had existed.  She would not,
could not believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her
could distress him long; his mind was not of that sort.
London would soon bring its cure.  In London he would
soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be thankful
for the right reason in her which had saved him from its
evil consequences.

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes,
her uncle was, soon after tea, called out of the room;
an occurrence too common to strike her, and she thought nothing
of it till the butler reappeared ten minutes afterwards,
and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, "Sir Thomas
wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room."
Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion
rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks;
but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris
called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about? where
are you going? don't be in such a hurry.  Depend upon it,
it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me"
(looking at the butler); "but you are so very eager to put
yourself forward.  What should Sir Thomas want you for?
It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment.
You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me,
not Miss Price."

But Baddeley was stout.  "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price;
I am certain of its being Miss Price."  And there was
a half-smile with the words, which meant, "I do not think
you would answer the purpose at all."

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose
herself to work again; and Fanny, walking off in
agitating consciousness, found herself, as she anticipated,
in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.



CHAPTER XXXIII

The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive
as the lady had designed.  The gentleman was not
so easily satisfied.  He had all the disposition to
persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him.  He had vanity,
which strongly inclined him in the first place to think
she did love him, though she might not know it herself;
and which, secondly, when constrained at last to admit
that she did know her own present feelings, convinced him
that he should be able in time to make those feelings
what he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which,
operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth
than delicacy, made her affection appear of greater
consequence because it was withheld, and determined him
to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing
her to love him.

He would not despair:  he would not desist.  He had every
well-grounded reason for solid attachment; he knew her
to have all the worth that could justify the warmest
hopes of lasting happiness with her; her conduct at this
very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and delicacy
of her character (qualities which he believed most rare
indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes,
and confirm all his resolutions.  He knew not that he had a
pre-engaged heart to attack.  Of _that_ he had no suspicion.
He considered her rather as one who had never thought
on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been
guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person;
whose modesty had prevented her from understanding
his attentions, and who was still overpowered by the
suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the novelty
of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood,
he should succeed?  He believed it fully.  Love such as his,
in a man like himself, must with perseverance secure a return,
and at no great distance; and he had so much delight in
the idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time,
that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted.
A little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to
Henry Crawford.  He rather derived spirits from it.
He had been apt to gain hearts too easily.  His situation
was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her
life to find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible.
She found that he did mean to persevere; but how he could,
after such language from her as she felt herself obliged
to use, was not to be understood.  She told him that she
did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never
should love him; that such a change was quite impossible;
that the subject was most painful to her; that she must
entreat him never to mention it again, to allow her to leave
him at once, and let it be considered as concluded for ever.
And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion
their dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make
mutual affection incompatible; and that they were unfitted
for each other by nature, education, and habit.  All this
she had said, and with the earnestness of sincerity;
yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there
being anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything
unfriendly in their situations; and positively declared,
that he would still love, and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner.
Her manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware
how much it concealed the sternness of her purpose.
Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness made every expression
of indifference seem almost an effort of self-denial;
seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself
as to him.  Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who,
as the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of
Maria Bertram, had been her abhorrence, whom she had hated
to see or to speak to, in whom she could believe no good
quality to exist, and whose power, even of being agreeable,
she had barely acknowledged.  He was now the Mr. Crawford
who was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love;
whose feelings were apparently become all that was
honourable and upright, whose views of happiness were all
fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was pouring out
his sense of her merits, describing and describing again
his affection, proving as far as words could prove it,
and in the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talent too,
that he sought her for her gentleness and her goodness;
and to complete the whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford
who had procured William's promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could
not but operate!  She might have disdained him in all
the dignity of angry virtue, in the grounds of Sotherton,
or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he approached
her now with rights that demanded different treatment.
She must be courteous, and she must be compassionate.
She must have a sensation of being honoured, and whether
thinking of herself or her brother, she must have a strong
feeling of gratitude.  The effect of the whole was a
manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled
with her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern,
that to a temper of vanity and hope like Crawford's,
the truth, or at least the strength of her indifference,
might well be questionable; and he was not so irrational
as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,
assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed
the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there
was no look of despair in parting to belie his words,
or give her hopes of his being less unreasonable than he
professed himself.

Now she was angry.  Some resentment did arise at a
perseverance so selfish and ungenerous.  Here was again
a want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly
so struck and disgusted her.  Here was again a something
of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.
How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity
where his own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always
known no principle to supply as a duty what the heart
was deficient in!  Had her own affections been as free
as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have engaged
them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness,
as she sat musing over that too great indulgence and luxury
of a fire upstairs:  wondering at the past and present;
wondering at what was yet to come, and in a nervous
agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion
of her being never under any circumstances able to love
Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of having a fire to sit
over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till
the morrow for a knowledge of what had passed between
the young people.  He then saw Mr. Crawford, and received
his account.  The first feeling was disappointment:
he had hoped better things; he had thought that an hour's
entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked
so little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny;
but there was speedy comfort in the determined views
and sanguine perseverance of the lover; and when seeing
such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas
was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment,
or kindness, that might assist the plan.  Mr. Crawford's
steadiness was honoured, and Fanny was praised, and the
connexion was still the most desirable in the world.
At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome;
he had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as
to the frequency of his visits, at present or in future.
In all his niece's family and friends, there could be
but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence
of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement
received with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted
the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most
proper and hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain
from all farther importunity with his niece, and to
shew no open interference.  Upon her disposition he
believed kindness might be the best way of working.
Entreaty should be from one quarter only.  The forbearance
of her family on a point, respecting which she could
be in no doubt of their wishes, might be their surest
means of forwarding it.  Accordingly, on this principle,
Sir Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her,
with a mild gravity, intended to be overcoming,
"Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again, and learn
from him exactly how matters stand between you.  He is
a most extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event,
you must feel that you have created an attachment of no
common character; though, young as you are, and little
acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady nature
of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck
as I am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance
of this sort against discouragement.  With him it is
entirely a matter of feeling:  he claims no merit in it;
perhaps is entitled to none.  Yet, having chosen so well,
his constancy has a respectable stamp.  Had his choice
been less unexceptionable, I should have condemned
his persevering."

"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford
should continue to know that it is paying me a very
great compliment, and I feel most undeservedly honoured;
but I am so perfectly convinced, and I have told him so,
that it never will be in my power--"

"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, "there is no
occasion for this.  Your feelings are as well known
to me as my wishes and regrets must be to you.
There is nothing more to be said or done.  From this
hour the subject is never to be revived between us.
You will have nothing to fear, or to be agitated about.
You cannot suppose me capable of trying to persuade you
to marry against your inclinations.  Your happiness
and advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is
required of you but to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours
to convince you that they may not be incompatible with his.
He proceeds at his own risk.  You are on safe ground.
I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls,
as you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred.
You will see him with the rest of us, in the same manner,
and, as much as you can, dismissing the recollection of
everything unpleasant.  He leaves Northamptonshire so soon,
that even this slight sacrifice cannot be often demanded.
The future must be very uncertain.  And now, my dear Fanny,
this subject is closed between us."

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think
of with much satisfaction.  Her uncle's kind expressions,
however, and forbearing manner, were sensibly felt;
and when she considered how much of the truth was unknown
to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at the line
of conduct he pursued.  He, who had married a daughter
to Mr. Rushworth:  romantic delicacy was certainly not
to be expected from him.  She must do her duty, and trust
that time might make her duty easier than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's
attachment would hold out for ever; she could not
but imagine that steady, unceasing discouragement from
herself would put an end to it in time.  How much time
she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion,
is another concern.  It would not be fair to inquire
into a young lady's exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself
once more obliged to mention the subject to his niece,
to prepare her briefly for its being imparted to her aunts;
a measure which he would still have avoided, if possible,
but which became necessary from the totally opposite
feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding.
He had no idea of concealment.  It was all known at
the Parsonage, where he loved to talk over the future
with both his sisters, and it would be rather gratifying
to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress
of his success.  When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt
the necessity of making his own wife and sister-in-law
acquainted with the business without delay; though,
on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the effect of the
communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself.
He deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal.
Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not very far from
classing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people
who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him.  He pressed
for the strictest forbearance and silence towards
their niece; she not only promised, but did observe it.
She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:
bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for
having received such an offer than for refusing it.
It was an injury and affront to Julia, who ought to have
been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that,
she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her;
and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom
she had been always trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the
occasion than she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed
her for allowing her only to see her displeasure,
and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently.  She had been a beauty,
and a prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty
and wealth were all that excited her respect.  To know
Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of fortune,
raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion.
By convincing her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she
had been doubting about before, and that she would be
advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit
in calling her niece.

"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone
together afterwards, and she really had known something
like impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance,
as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; "Well, Fanny,
I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning.  I must
just speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_,
and then I shall have done.  I give you joy, my dear niece."
And looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we
certainly are a handsome family!"

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say;
when, hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side,
she presently answered--

"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from
what I have done, I am sure.  _You_ cannot wish me to marry;
for you would miss me, should not you?  Yes, I am sure
you would miss me too much for that."

"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you,
when such an offer as this comes in your way.
I could do very well without you, if you were married
to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford.  And you
must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's
duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this."

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece
of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt
in the course of eight years and a half.  It silenced her.
She felt how unprofitable contention would be.
If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could
be hoped from attacking her understanding.  Lady Bertram
was quite talkative.

"I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he
fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief
was done that evening.  You did look remarkably well.
Everybody said so.  Sir Thomas said so.  And you know
you had Chapman to help you to dress.  I am very glad
I sent Chapman to you.  I shall tell Sir Thomas that I
am sure it was done that evening."  And still pursuing
the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added,
"And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did
for Maria:  the next time Pug has a litter you shall have
a puppy."



CHAPTER XXXIV

Edmund had great things to hear on his return.  Many surprises
were awaiting him.  The first that occurred was not least
in interest:  the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister
walking together through the village as he rode into it.
He had concluded--he had meant them to be far distant.
His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely
to avoid Miss Crawford.  He was returning to Mansfield
with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances,
and tender associations, when her own fair self was
before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found
himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly,
from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been
thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther,
much farther, from him in inclination than any distance
could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not
have hoped for, had he expected to see her.  Coming as he
did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away,
he would have expected anything rather than a look
of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.
It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him
home in the properest state for feeling the full value
of the other joyful surprises at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon
master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort
within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it
a source of most gratifying sensation and unvarying
cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone,
he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events
of the last fortnight, and the present situation
of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on.  They sat so much
longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure
they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought
them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt
dreadfully guilty.  He came to her, sat down by her,
took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment
she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene
which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed
her emotion in some unpardonable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action,
to be conveying to her that unqualified approbation
and encouragement which her hopes drew from it.
It was designed only to express his participation in all
that interested her, and to tell her that he had been
hearing what quickened every feeling of affection.  He was,
in fact, entirely on his father's side of the question.
His surprise was not so great as his father's at her
refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing
her to consider him with anything like a preference,
he had always believed it to be rather the reverse,
and could imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared,
but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more
desirable than he did.  It had every recommendation to him;
and while honouring her for what she had done under the
influence of her present indifference, honouring her in
rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo,
he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing,
that it would be a match at last, and that, united by
mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions
were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other,
as he was now beginning seriously to consider them.
Crawford had been too precipitate.  He had not given her
time to attach herself.  He had begun at the wrong end.
With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition
as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work
out a happy conclusion.  Meanwhile, he saw enough
of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard
against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look,
or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's
return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask
him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment.
He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity
for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree
of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from
her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little--
every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her
embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion,
there was hope in nothing else--that he was almost ready
to wonder at his friend's perseverance.  Fanny was worth
it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience,
every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have
gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something
more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers.
He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer,
and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his
friend that he could come to from all that he observed
to pass before, and at, and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought
more promising.  When he and Crawford walked into the
drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently
and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for.
Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.

"We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother.
"Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book
down upon hearing you coming."  And sure enough there
was a book on the table which had the air of being
very recently closed:  a volume of Shakespeare.
"She often reads to me out of those books; and she
was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's--
what's his name, Fanny?--when we heard your footsteps."

Crawford took the volume.  "Let me have the pleasure
of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he.
"I shall find it immediately."  And by carefully giving
way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it,
or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy
Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the
name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech.
Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable
for or against.  All her attention was for her work.
She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else.
But taste was too strong in her.  She could not abstract
her mind five minutes:  she was forced to listen; his reading
was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme.
To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:
her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well,
but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of
excellence beyond what she had ever met with.  The King,
the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given
in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest
power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight
at will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each;
and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness,
or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could
do it with equal beauty.  It was truly dramatic.
His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play
might give, and his reading brought all his acting before
her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it
came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had
been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss
Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was
amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened
in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to
occupy her totally:  how it fell from her hand while
she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes
which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout
the day were turned and fixed on Crawford--fixed on him
for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction
drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed,
and the charm was broken.  Then she was shrinking again
into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever;
but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement
for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him,
he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too.

"That play must be a favourite with you," said he;
"you read as if you knew it well."

"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,"
replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume
of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen.
I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard
of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which.
But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how.
It is a part of an Englishman's constitution.  His thoughts
and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches
them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct.
No man of any brain can open at a good part of one
of his plays without falling into the flow of his
meaning immediately."

"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,"
said Edmund, "from one's earliest years.  His celebrated
passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half
the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare,
use his similes, and describe with his descriptions;
but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you
gave it.  To know him in bits and scraps is common enough;
to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon;
but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent."

"Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a bow
of mock gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word
of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both
feeling that it could not be.  Her praise had been given
in her attention; _that_ must content them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too.
"It was really like being at a play," said she.  "I wish
Sir Thomas had been here."

Crawford was excessively pleased.  If Lady Bertram,
with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this,
the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened
as she was, must feel, was elevating.

"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,"
said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what,
I think you will have a theatre, some time or other,
at your house in Norfolk.  I mean when you are settled there.
I do indeed.  I think you will fit up a theatre at your
house in Norfolk."

"Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness.  "No, no,
that will never be.  Your ladyship is quite mistaken.
No theatre at Everingham!  Oh no!"  And he looked at Fanny
with an expressive smile, which evidently meant, "That lady
will never allow a theatre at Everingham."

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it,
as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey
the full meaning of the protestation; and such a quick
consciousness of compliment, such a ready comprehension
of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed.
The two young men were the only talkers, but they,
standing by the fire, talked over the too common neglect
of the qualification, the total inattention to it, in the
ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural,
yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance
and uncouthness of men, of sensible and well-informed men,
when suddenly called to the necessity of reading aloud,
which had fallen within their notice, giving instances
of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes,
the want of management of the voice, of proper modulation
and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all proceeding
from the first cause:  want of early attention and habit;
and Fanny was listening again with great entertainment.

"Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile,
"how little the art of reading has been studied! how little
a clear manner, and good delivery, have been attended to!
I speak rather of the past, however, than the present.
There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among
those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago,
the larger number, to judge by their performance,
must have thought reading was reading, and preaching
was preaching.  It is different now.  The subject is more
justly considered.  It is felt that distinctness and energy
may have weight in recommending the most solid truths;
and besides, there is more general observation and taste,
a more critical knowledge diffused than formerly;
in every congregation there is a larger proportion
who know a little of the matter, and who can judge
and criticise."

Edmund had already gone through the service once since
his ordination; and upon this being understood, he had
a variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings
and success; questions, which being made, though with the
vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without any
touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund
knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure
in satisfying; and when Crawford proceeded to ask his
opinion and give his own as to the properest manner in which
particular passages in the service should be delivered,
shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,
and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and
more pleased.  This would be the way to Fanny's heart.
She was not to be won by all that gallantry and wit and
good-nature together could do; or, at least, she would
not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance
of sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.

"Our liturgy," observed Crawford, "has beauties, which not
even a careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy;
but it has also redundancies and repetitions which require
good reading not to be felt.  For myself, at least, I must
confess being not always so attentive as I ought to be"
(here was a glance at Fanny); "that nineteen times out of
twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read,
and longing to have it to read myself.  Did you speak?"
stepping eagerly to Fanny, and addressing her in a
softened voice; and upon her saying "No," he added,
"Are you sure you did not speak?  I saw your lips move.
I fancied you might be going to tell me I ought to be
more attentive, and not _allow_ my thoughts to wander.
Are not you going to tell me so?"

"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--
even supposing--"

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could
not be prevailed on to add another word, not by dint
of several minutes of supplication and waiting.  He then
returned to his former station, and went on as if there
had been no such tender interruption.

"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers
well read.  A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing.
It is more difficult to speak well than to compose well;
that is, the rules and trick of composition are
oftener an object of study.  A thoroughly good sermon,
thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification.
I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration
and respect, and more than half a mind to take orders
and preach myself.  There is something in the eloquence
of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled
to the highest praise and honour.  The preacher who can
touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers,
on subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in all
common hands; who can say anything new or striking,
anything that rouses the attention without offending the taste,
or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom
one could not, in his public capacity, honour enough.
I should like to be such a man."

Edmund laughed.

"I should indeed.  I never listened to a distinguished
preacher in my life without a sort of envy.  But then,
I must have a London audience.  I could not preach but
to the educated; to those who were capable of estimating
my composition.  And I do not know that I should be fond
of preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice
in the spring, after being anxiously expected for half
a dozen Sundays together; but not for a constancy;
it would not do for a constancy."

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook
her head, and Crawford was instantly by her side again,
entreating to know her meaning; and as Edmund perceived,
by his drawing in a chair, and sitting down close by her,
that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks
and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly
as possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up
a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that dear little
Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away that shake
of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover;
and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business
from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various
advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South
Wales"; "To Parents and Guardians"; and a "Capital
season'd Hunter."

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been
as motionless as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart
to see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything
in the power of her modest, gentle nature, to repulse
Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries;
and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he.  "What was
it meant to express?  Disapprobation, I fear.  But of what?
What had I been saying to displease you?  Did you think me
speaking improperly, lightly, irreverently on the subject?
Only tell me if I was.  Only tell me if I was wrong.
I want to be set right.  Nay, nay, I entreat you;
for one moment put down your work.  What did that shake
of the head mean?"

In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford,"
repeated twice over; and in vain did she try to move away.
In the same low, eager voice, and the same close neighbourhood,
he went on, reurging the same questions as before.
She grew more agitated and displeased.

"How can you, sir?  You quite astonish me; I wonder
how you can--"

"Do I astonish you?" said he.  "Do you wonder?  Is there
anything in my present entreaty that you do not understand?
I will explain to you instantly all that makes me urge
you in this manner, all that gives me an interest in
what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity.
I will not leave you to wonder long."

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile,
but she said nothing.

"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should
not like to engage in the duties of a clergyman always
for a constancy.  Yes, that was the word.  Constancy:  I am
not afraid of the word.  I would spell it, read it,
write it with anybody.  I see nothing alarming in the word.
Did you think I ought?"

"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--
"perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always
know yourself as well as you seemed to do at that moment."

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate,
was determined to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had
hoped to silence him by such an extremity of reproof,
found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only a change
from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another.
He had always something to entreat the explanation of.
The opportunity was too fair.  None such had occurred
since his seeing her in her uncle's room, none such might
occur again before his leaving Mansfield.  Lady Bertram's
being just on the other side of the table was a trifle,
for she might always be considered as only half-awake, and
Edmund's advertisements were still of the first utility.

"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions
and reluctant answers; "I am happier than I was, because I
now understand more clearly your opinion of me.  You think
me unsteady:  easily swayed by the whim of the moment,
easily tempted, easily put aside.  With such an opinion,
no wonder that.  But we shall see.  It is not by protestations
that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged;
it is not by telling you that my affections are steady.
My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall
speak for me.  _They_ shall prove that, as far as you
can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you.  You are
infinitely my superior in merit; all _that_ I know.
You have qualities which I had not before supposed
to exist in such a degree in any human creature.
You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what--
not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees
anything like it--but beyond what one fancies might be.
But still I am not frightened.  It is not by equality of
merit that you can be won.  That is out of the question.
It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest,
who loves you most devotedly, that has the best
right to a return.  There I build my confidence.
By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once
convinced that my attachment is what I declare it,
I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes.
Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny.  Nay" (seeing her draw back
displeased), "forgive me.  Perhaps I have as yet no right;
but by what other name can I call you?  Do you suppose
you are ever present to my imagination under any other?
No, it is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream
of all night.  You have given the name such reality
of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive
of you."

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer,
or have refrained from at least trying to get away in
spite of all the too public opposition she foresaw to it,
had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,
the very sound which she had been long watching for,
and long thinking strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn,
and cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered
her from a grievous imprisonment of body and mind.
Mr. Crawford was obliged to move.  She was at liberty,
she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the
number of those who might speak and hear.  But though
the conference had seemed full long to him, and though
on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,
he inclined to hope that so much could not have been
said and listened to without some profit to the speaker.



CHAPTER XXXV

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny
to chuse whether her situation with regard to Crawford
should be mentioned between them or not; and that if she
did not lead the way, it should never be touched on by him;
but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he was induced
by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence
might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for
the Crawfords' departure; and Sir Thomas thought it
might be as well to make one more effort for the young
man before he left Mansfield, that all his professions
and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much
hope to sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection
of Mr. Crawford's character in that point.  He wished him
to be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means
of effecting it would be by not trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage
in the business; he wanted to know Fanny's feelings.
She had been used to consult him in every difficulty,
and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her
confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought
he must be of service to her; whom else had she to open
her heart to?  If she did not need counsel, she must need
the comfort of communication.  Fanny estranged from him,
silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things;
a state which he must break through, and which he could
easily learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

"I will speak to her, sir:  I will take the first opportunity
of speaking to her alone," was the result of such thoughts
as these; and upon Sir Thomas's information of her
being at that very time walking alone in the shrubbery,
he instantly joined her.

"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he.  "Shall I?"
Drawing her arm within his.  "It is a long while since we
have had a comfortable walk together."

She assented to it all rather by look than word.
Her spirits were low.

"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a
comfortable walk, something more is necessary than merely
pacing this gravel together.  You must talk to me.
I know you have something on your mind.  I know what you
are thinking of.  You cannot suppose me uninformed.
Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you
hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing
for me to tell."

"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny.
No one but you can tell me them.  I do not mean to
press you, however.  If it is not what you wish yourself,
I have done.  I had thought it might be a relief."

"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find
any relief in talking of what I feel."

"Do you suppose that we think differently?  I have no idea
of it.  I dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions,
they would be found as much alike as they have been used to be:
to the point--I consider Crawford's proposals as most
advantageous and desirable, if you could return his affection.
I consider it as most natural that all your family
should wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot,
you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him.
Can there be any disagreement between us here?"

"Oh no!  But I thought you blamed me.  I thought you
were against me.  This is such a comfort!"

"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you
sought it.  But how could you possibly suppose me against you?
How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love?
Were I even careless in general on such matters, how could
you imagine me so where your happiness was at stake?"

"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking
to you."

"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right.
I may be sorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_,
for you had not had time to attach yourself--but I think
you perfectly right.  Can it admit of a question?
It is disgraceful to us if it does.  You did not love him;
nothing could have justified your accepting him."

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite
mistaken who wished you to do otherwise.  But the matter
does not end here.  Crawford's is no common attachment;
he perseveres, with the hope of creating that regard
which had not been created before.  This, we know,
must be a work of time.  But" (with an affectionate smile)
"let him succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last.
You have proved yourself upright and disinterested,
prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you
will be the perfect model of a woman which I have always
believed you born for."

"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me."
And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund,
and which she blushed at the recollection of herself,
when she saw his look, and heard him reply, "Never!  Fanny!--
so very determined and positive!  This is not like yourself,
your rational self."

"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself,
"that I _think_ I never shall, as far as the future can
be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard."

"I must hope better things.  I am aware, more aware
than Crawford can be, that the man who means to make
you love him (you having due notice of his intentions)
must have very uphill work, for there are all your early
attachments and habits in battle array; and before he
can get your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it
from all the holds upon things animate and inanimate,
which so many years' growth have confirmed, and which are
considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea
of separation.  I know that the apprehension of being
forced to quit Mansfield will for a time be arming you
against him.  I wish he had not been obliged to tell you
what he was trying for.  I wish he had known you as well as
I do, Fanny.  Between us, I think we should have won you.
My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could
not have failed.  He should have worked upon my plans.
I must hope, however, that time, proving him (as I firmly
believe it will) to deserve you by his steady affection,
will give him his reward.  I cannot suppose that you have
not the _wish_ to love him--the natural wish of gratitude.
You must have some feeling of that sort.  You must be sorry
for your own indifference."

"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a
direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all
our inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite
impossible we should ever be tolerably happy together,
even if I _could_ like him.  There never were two people
more dissimilar.  We have not one taste in common.
We should be miserable."

"You are mistaken, Fanny.  The dissimilarity is not so strong.
You are quite enough alike.  You _have_ tastes in common.
You have moral and literary tastes in common.  You have
both warm hearts and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny,
who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare
the other night, will think you unfitted as companions?
You forget yourself:  there is a decided difference
in your tempers, I allow.  He is lively, you are serious;
but so much the better:  his spirits will support yours.
It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy
difficulties greater than they are.  His cheerfulness
will counteract this.  He sees difficulties nowhere:
and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support
to you.  Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in
the smallest degree make against the probability of your
happiness together:  do not imagine it.  I am myself
convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance.
I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike:
I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners,
in the inclination for much or little company, in the
propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay.
Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced,
friendly to matrimonial happiness.  I exclude extremes,
of course; and a very close resemblance in all those
points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme.
A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard
of manners and conduct."

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now:
Miss Crawford's power was all returning.  He had been
speaking of her cheerfully from the hour of his coming home.
His avoiding her was quite at an end.  He had dined at the
Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes,
Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford,
and said, "It is not merely in _temper_ that I consider
him as totally unsuited to myself; though, in _that_
respect, I think the difference between us too great,
infinitely too great:  his spirits often oppress me;
but there is something in him which I object to still more.
I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve his character.
I have not thought well of him from the time of the play.
I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very
improperly and unfeelingly--I may speak of it now because
it is all over--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth,
not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him,
and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which--in short,
at the time of the play, I received an impression which
will never be got over."

"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her
to the end, "let us not, any of us, be judged by what we
appeared at that period of general folly.  The time of the
play is a time which I hate to recollect.  Maria was wrong,
Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none
so wrong as myself.  Compared with me, all the rest
were blameless.  I was playing the fool with my eyes open."

"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than
you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes
very jealous."

"Very possibly.  No wonder.  Nothing could be more improper
than the whole business.  I am shocked whenever I think
that Maria could be capable of it; but, if she could
undertake the part, we must not be surprised at the rest."

"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did
not think he was paying her attentions."

"Julia!  I have heard before from some one of his being
in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it.
And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters'
good qualities, I think it very possible that they might,
one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford,
and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was
perfectly prudent.  I can remember that they were evidently
fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man
like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking,
might be led on to--there could be nothing very striking,
because it is clear that he had no pretensions:  his heart
was reserved for you.  And I must say, that its being
for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion.
It does him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation
of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure attachment.
It proves him unspoilt by his uncle.  It proves him, in short,
everything that I had been used to wish to believe him,
and feared he was not."

"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought,
on serious subjects."

"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious
subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case.
How could it be otherwise, with such an education and adviser?
Under the disadvantages, indeed, which both have had,
is it not wonderful that they should be what they are?
Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto
been too much his guides.  Happily, those feelings have
generally been good.  You will supply the rest; and a most
fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature--
to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a
gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend them.
He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity.
He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy;
but you will make him everything."

"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a
shrinking accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!"

"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything!
fancying everything too much for you!  Well, though I
may not be able to persuade you into different feelings,
you will be persuaded into them, I trust.
I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may.
I have no common interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next
to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me.
You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford."

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say;
and they walked on together some fifty yards in mutual
silence and abstraction.  Edmund first began again--

"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking
of it yesterday, particularly pleased, because I had not
depended upon her seeing everything in so just a light.
I knew she was very fond of you; but yet I was afraid
of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite
as it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not
rather fixed on some woman of distinction or fortune.
I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, which she
has been too much used to hear.  But it was very different.
She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought.  She desires
the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself.
We had a long talk about it.  I should not have mentioned
the subject, though very anxious to know her sentiments;
but I had not been in the room five minutes before she
began introducing it with all that openness of heart,
and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness
which are so much a part of herself.  Mrs. Grant laughed
at her for her rapidity."

"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"

"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters
together by themselves; and when once we had begun,
we had not done with you, Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant
came in."

"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."

"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best.
You will see her, however, before she goes.  She is very
angry with you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that.
She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her anger.
It is the regret and disappointment of a sister,
who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may
wish for, at the first moment.  She is hurt, as you would
be for William; but she loves and esteems you with all
her heart."

"I knew she would be very angry with me."

"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer
to him, "do not let the idea of her anger distress you.
It is anger to be talked of rather than felt.  Her heart
is made for love and kindness, not for resentment.
I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise;
I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said
that you _should_ be Henry's wife.  And I observed that she
always spoke of you as 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do;
and it had a sound of most sisterly cordiality."

"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she
there all the time?"

"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister.  The surprise
of your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded.
That you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems
more than they can understand.  I said what I could for you;
but in good truth, as they stated the case--you must
prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can
by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them.
But this is teasing you.  I have done.  Do not turn away
from me."

"I _should_ have thought," said Fanny, after a pause
of recollection and exertion, "that every woman must
have felt the possibility of a man's not being approved,
not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him
be ever so generally agreeable.  Let him have all the
perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set
down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every
woman he may happen to like himself.  But, even supposing
it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims
which his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared
to meet him with any feeling answerable to his own?
He took me wholly by surprise.  I had not an idea that
his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and surely I
was not to be teaching myself to like him only because
he was taking what seemed very idle notice of me.
In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity
to be forming expectations on Mr. Crawford.  I am sure
his sisters, rating him as they do, must have thought it so,
supposing he had meant nothing.  How, then, was I to be--
to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me?
How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon
as it was asked for?  His sisters should consider me
as well as him.  The higher his deserts, the more improper
for me ever to have thought of him.  And, and--we think
very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine
a woman so very soon capable of returning an affection
as this seems to imply."

"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth.  I know this
to be the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings.
I had attributed them to you before.  I thought I could
understand you.  You have now given exactly the explanation
which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant,
and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted
friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm
of her fondness for Henry.  I told them that you were
of all human creatures the one over whom habit had most
power and novelty least; and that the very circumstance
of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him.
Their being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour;
that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to;
and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them
a knowledge of your character.  Miss Crawford made us
laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.
She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being
loved in time, and of having his addresses most kindly
received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage."

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was
here asked for.  Her feelings were all in revolt.
She feared she had been doing wrong:  saying too much,
overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;
in guarding against one evil, laying herself open
to another; and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness
repeated to her at such a moment, and on such a subject,
was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face,
and immediately resolved to forbear all farther discussion;
and not even to mention the name of Crawford again,
except as it might be connected with what _must_ be agreeable
to her.  On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--
"They go on Monday.  You are sure, therefore, of seeing
your friend either to-morrow or Sunday.  They really go
on Monday; and I was within a trifle of being persuaded
to stay at Lessingby till that very day!  I had almost
promised it.  What a difference it might have made!
Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been
felt all my life."

"You were near staying there?"

"Very.  I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented.
Had I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you
were all going on, I believe I should certainly have staid;
but I knew nothing that had happened here for a fortnight,
and felt that I had been away long enough."

"You spent your time pleasantly there?"

"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not.
They were all very pleasant.  I doubt their finding me so.
I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid
of it till I was in Mansfield again."

"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?"

"Yes, very well.  Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls.
But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society.
Good-humoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man
who has been used to sensible women.  They are two distinct
orders of being.  You and Miss Crawford have made me
too nice."

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied;
he saw it in her looks, it could not be talked away;
and attempting it no more, he led her directly, with the
kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the house.



CHAPTER XXXVI

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all
that Fanny could tell, or could leave to be conjectured
of her sentiments, and he was satisfied.  It had been,
as he before presumed, too hasty a measure on Crawford's side,
and time must be given to make the idea first familiar,
and then agreeable to her.  She must be used to the
consideration of his being in love with her, and then
a return of affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation
to his father; and recommended there being nothing more said
to her:  no farther attempts to influence or persuade;
but that everything should be left to Crawford's assiduities,
and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so.  Edmund's account
of Fanny's disposition he could believe to be just;
he supposed she had all those feelings, but he must consider
it as very unfortunate that she _had_; for, less willing
than his son to trust to the future, he could not help
fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit
were necessary for her, she might not have persuaded
herself into receiving his addresses properly before
the young man's inclination for paying them were over.
There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit
quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called
Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny,
and she lived in continual terror of it.  As a sister,
so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what
she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure,
she was in every way an object of painful alarm.
Her displeasure, her penetration, and her happiness were
all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of having
others present when they met was Fanny's only support
in looking forward to it.  She absented herself as little
as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room,
and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution
to avoid any sudden attack.

She succeeded.  She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt,
when Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over,
and Miss Crawford looking and speaking with much less
particularity of expression than she had anticipated,
Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse
to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation.
But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was not the slave
of opportunity.  She was determined to see Fanny alone,
and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice,
"I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere";
words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses
and all her nerves.  Denial was impossible.  Her habits
of ready submission, on the contrary, made her almost
instantly rise and lead the way out of the room.
She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint
of countenance was over on Miss Crawford's side.
She immediately shook her head at Fanny with arch,
yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand,
seemed hardly able to help beginning directly.
She said nothing, however, but, "Sad, sad girl!
I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,"
and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they
might be secure of having four walls to themselves.
Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her guest to the
apartment which was now always fit for comfortable use;
opening the door, however, with a most aching heart,
and feeling that she had a more distressing scene before
her than ever that spot had yet witnessed.  But the evil
ready to burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden
change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect
on her mind which the finding herself in the East room
again produced.

"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here again?
The East room!  Once only was I in this room before";
and after stopping to look about her, and seemingly
to retrace all that had then passed, she added, "Once
only before.  Do you remember it?  I came to rehearse.
Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal.  You were
our audience and prompter.  A delightful rehearsal.
I shall never forget it.  Here we were, just in this
part of the room:  here was your cousin, here was I,
here were the chairs.  Oh! why will such things ever
pass away?"

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer.
Her mind was entirely self-engrossed. She was in a reverie
of sweet remembrances.

"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable!
The subject of it so very--very--what shall I say?
He was to be describing and recommending matrimony to me.
I think I see him now, trying to be as demure and composed
as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.
'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state,
matrimony may be called a happy life.'  I suppose no time
can ever wear out the impression I have of his looks
and voice as he said those words.  It was curious,
very curious, that we should have such a scene to play!
If I had the power of recalling any one week of my existence,
it should be that week--that acting week.  Say what
you would, Fanny, it should be _that_; for I never knew
such exquisite happiness in any other.  His sturdy spirit
to bend as it did!  Oh! it was sweet beyond expression.
But alas, that very evening destroyed it all.  That very
evening brought your most unwelcome uncle.  Poor Sir Thomas,
who was glad to see you?  Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would
now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly
did hate him for many a week.  No, I do him justice now.
He is just what the head of such a family should be.
Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all."
And having said so, with a degree of tenderness and
consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her before,
and now thought only too becoming, she turned away
for a moment to recover herself.  "I have had a little
fit since I came into this room, as you may perceive,"
said she presently, with a playful smile, "but it is
over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to
scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do,
I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point."
And embracing her very affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny!
when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I
do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything
but love you."

Fanny was affected.  She had not foreseen anything of this,
and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy
influence of the word "last."  She cried as if she
had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could;
and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight
of such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said,
"I hate to leave you.  I shall see no one half so amiable
where I am going.  Who says we shall not be sisters?
I know we shall.  I feel that we are born to be connected;
and those tears convince me that you feel it too,
dear Fanny."

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said,
"But you are only going from one set of friends to another.
You are going to a very particular friend."

"Yes, very true.  Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend
for years.  But I have not the least inclination to go
near her.  I can think only of the friends I am leaving:
my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in general.
You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one
finds in the world at large.  You all give me a feeling
of being able to trust and confide in you, which in common
intercourse one knows nothing of.  I wish I had settled
with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a much
better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off.
And when I have done with her I must go to her sister,
Lady Stornaway, because _she_ was rather my most particular
friend of the two, but I have not cared much for _her_
these three years."

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent,
each thoughtful:  Fanny meditating on the different sorts
of friendship in the world, Mary on something of less
philosophic tendency.  _She_ first spoke again.

"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for
you upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the
East room, without having an idea whereabouts it was!
How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came along,
and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this
table at work; and then your cousin's astonishment,
when he opened the door, at seeing me here!  To be sure,
your uncle's returning that very evening!  There never
was anything quite like it."

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when,
shaking it off, she thus attacked her companion.

"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie.
Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking of you.
Oh! that I could transport you for a short time into
our circle in town, that you might understand how your
power over Henry is thought of there!  Oh! the envyings
and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder,
the incredulity that will be felt at hearing what you
have done!  For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero
of an old romance, and glories in his chains.  You should
come to London to know how to estimate your conquest.
If you were to see how he is courted, and how I am courted
for his sake!  Now, I am well aware that I shall not be
half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his
situation with you.  When she comes to know the truth
she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again;
for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife,
whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take.
Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree.
Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an
idea of the _sensation_ that you will be occasioning,
of the curiosity there will be to see you, of the endless
questions I shall have to answer!  Poor Margaret Fraser
will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth,
and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes.
I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake,
for I look upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy as most
other married people.  And yet it was a most desirable
match for Janet at the time.  We were all delighted.
She could not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich,
and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered
and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young
woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.
And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem
to know how to make the best of it.  There is a spirit
of irritation which, to say nothing worse, is certainly
very ill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind the
conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect.
Even Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister,
and a certain consideration for her judgment, which makes
one feel there _is_ attachment; but of that I shall
see nothing with the Frasers.  I shall be at Mansfield
for ever, Fanny.  My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas
Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection.
Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet there was
nothing improper on her side:  she did not run into the
match inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight.
She took three days to consider of his proposals,
and during those three days asked the advice of everybody
connected with her whose opinion was worth having,
and especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose
knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally
and deservedly looked up to by all the young people
of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour
of Mr. Fraser.  This seems as if nothing were a security
for matrimonial comfort.  I have not so much to say
for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man
in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway,
who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr. Rushworth,
but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.
I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right,
for he has not even the air of a gentleman, and now I am
sure she was wrong.  By the bye, Flora Ross was dying
for Henry the first winter she came out.  But were I
to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have
known to be in love with him, I should never have done.
It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think
of him with anything like indifference.  But are you
so insensible as you profess yourself?  No, no, I see you
are not."

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face
at that moment as might warrant strong suspicion
in a predisposed mind.

"Excellent creature!  I will not tease you.  Everything shall
take its course.  But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you
were not so absolutely unprepared to have the question asked
as your cousin fancies.  It is not possible but that you
must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmises
as to what might be.  You must have seen that he was
trying to please you by every attention in his power.
Was not he devoted to you at the ball?  And then before
the ball, the necklace!  Oh! you received it just as it
was meant.  You were as conscious as heart could desire.
I remember it perfectly."

"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the
necklace beforehand?  Oh!  Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair."

"Knew of it!  It was his own doing entirely, his own thought.
I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head,
but I was delighted to act on his proposal for both
your sakes."

"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half
afraid at the time of its being so, for there was something
in your look that frightened me, but not at first;
I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed, indeed I was.
It is as true as that I sit here.  And had I had an idea of it,
nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace.
As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of
a particularity:  I had been sensible of it some little time,
perhaps two or three weeks; but then I considered it as
meaning nothing:  I put it down as simply being his way,
and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have
any serious thoughts of me.  I had not, Miss Crawford,
been an inattentive observer of what was passing between him
and some part of this family in the summer and autumn.
I was quiet, but I was not blind.  I could not but see
that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did
mean nothing."

"Ah!  I cannot deny it.  He has now and then been a sad flirt,
and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in
young ladies' affections.  I have often scolded him for it,
but it is his only fault; and there is this to be said,
that very few young ladies have any affections worth
caring for.  And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one
who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's
power to pay off the debts of one's sex!  Oh!  I am sure
it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."

Fanny shook her head.  "I cannot think well of a man
who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often
be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."

"I do not defend him.  I leave him entirely to your mercy,
and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much
you lecture him.  But this I will say, that his fault,
the liking to make girls a little in love with him, is not
half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a tendency to fall
in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.
And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached
to you in a way that he never was to any woman before;
that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you
as nearly for ever as possible.  If any man ever loved
a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you."

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing
to say.

"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier,"
continued Mary presently, "than when he had succeeded
in getting your brother's commission."

She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.

"Oh! yes.  How very, very kind of him."

"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know
the parties he had to move.  The Admiral hates trouble,
and scorns asking favours; and there are so many
young men's claims to be attended to in the same way,
that a friendship and energy, not very determined,
is easily put by.  What a happy creature William must be!
I wish we could see him."

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing
of all its varieties.  The recollection of what had
been done for William was always the most powerful
disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford;
and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been
first watching her complacently, and then musing on
something else, suddenly called her attention by saying:
"I should like to sit talking with you here all day,
but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye,
my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we
shall nominally part in the breakfast-parlour, I must
take leave of you here.  And I do take leave, longing for
a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again,
it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts
to each other without any remnant or shadow of reserve."

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner,
accompanied these words.

"I shall see your cousin in town soon:  he talks of
being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say,
in the course of the spring; and your eldest cousin,
and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again
and again, and all but you.  I have two favours to ask,
Fanny:  one is your correspondence.  You must write to me.
And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant,
and make her amends for my being gone."

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather
not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse
the correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to
accede to it more readily than her own judgment authorised.
There was no resisting so much apparent affection.
Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond
treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it,
she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides,
there was gratitude towards her, for having made their
_tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches
and without detection.  Her secret was still her own;
and while that was the case, she thought she could resign
herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting.  Henry Crawford
came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being
previously in the strongest state, her heart was softened
for a while towards him, because he really seemed to feel.
Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything.
He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,
though hoping she might never see him again till he were the
husband of some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand,
he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however,
or nothing that she heard, and when he had left the room,
she was better pleased that such a token of friendship
had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.



CHAPTER XXXVII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was that he
should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his
niece would find a blank in the loss of those attentions
which at the time she had felt, or fancied, an evil.
She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form;
and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again
into nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets
in her mind.  He watched her with this idea; but he
could hardly tell with what success.  He hardly knew
whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.
She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions
were beyond his discrimination.  He did not understand her:
he felt that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund
to tell him how she stood affected on the present occasion,
and whether she were more or less happy than she
had been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought
his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first
three or four days could produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford's sister,
the friend and companion who had been so much to her,
should not be more visibly regretted.  He wondered that Fanny
spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so little voluntarily
to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion,
who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort.  If she
could have believed Mary's future fate as unconnected
with Mansfield as she was determined the brother's
should be, if she could have hoped her return thither
to be as distant as she was much inclined to think his,
she would have been light of heart indeed; but the more
she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she
convinced that everything was now in a fairer train
for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had ever
been before.  On his side the inclination was stronger,
on hers less equivocal.  His objections, the scruples of
his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how;
and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were
equally got over--and equally without apparent reason.
It could only be imputed to increasing attachment.
His good and her bad feelings yielded to love, and such
love must unite them.  He was to go to town as soon as
some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--
perhaps within a fortnight; he talked of going,
he loved to talk of it; and when once with her again,
Fanny could not doubt the rest.  Her acceptance must
be as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad
feelings still remaining which made the prospect of it
most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed,
independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite
of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness,
had still been Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray
and bewildered, and without any suspicion of being so;
darkened, yet fancying itself light.  She might love,
but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment.
Fanny believed there was scarcely a second feeling
in common between them; and she may be forgiven by older
sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future
improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's
influence in this season of love had already done so little
in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions,
his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years
of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people
so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied
to Miss Crawford's nature that participation of the general
nature of women which would lead her to adopt the opinions
of the man she loved and respected as her own.  But as such
were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them,
and could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and
his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his
knowledge of human nature, to expect to see the effect
of the loss of power and consequence on his niece's spirits,
and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving
for their return; and he was soon afterwards able to account
for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all this,
by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he
could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits
he was watching.  William had obtained a ten days'
leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire,
and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the
latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform
there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance
except on duty.  So the uniform remained at Portsmouth,
and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance
of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshness
of its wearer's feelings must be worn away.  It would be sunk
into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming,
or more worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant,
who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees
others made commanders before him?  So reasoned Edmund,
till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which
placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second lieutenant
of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother
back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her
own family.  It had occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his
dignified musings, as a right and desirable measure;
but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted
his son.  Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing
but what was right.  The thing was good in itself,
and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt
of it being highly agreeable to Fanny.  This was enough
to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then so it shall be"
closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring
from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views
of good over and above what he had communicated to his son;
for his prime motive in sending her away had very little
to do with the propriety of her seeing her parents again,
and nothing at all with any idea of making her happy.
He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly
wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended;
and that a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries
of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state,
and incline her to a juster estimate of the value
of that home of greater permanence, and equal comfort,
of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece's understanding,
which he must consider as at present diseased.
A residence of eight or nine years in the abode of wealth
and plenty had a little disordered her powers of comparing
and judging.  Her father's house would, in all probability,
teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that
she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life,
for the experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have
had a strong attack of them when she first understood
what was intended, when her uncle first made her the offer
of visiting the parents, and brothers, and sisters,
from whom she had been divided almost half her life;
of returning for a couple of months to the scenes of
her infancy, with William for the protector and companion
of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see
William to the last hour of his remaining on land.
Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must have
been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was
of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never
a great talker, she was always more inclined to silence
when feeling most strongly.  At the moment she could
only thank and accept.  Afterwards, when familiarised
with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could
speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt;
but still there were emotions of tenderness that could
not be clothed in words.  The remembrance of all her
earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered in being
torn from them, came over her with renewed strength,
and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal
every pain that had since grown out of the separation.
To be in the centre of such a circle, loved by so many,
and more loved by all than she had ever been before;
to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel
herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at
peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every
look which could be fancied a reproach on their account.
This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that could
be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too--to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps
she might be allowed to make her absence three)
must do her good.  At a distance, unassailed by his looks
or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation
of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,
she should be able to reason herself into a properer state;
she should be able to think of him as in London,
and arranging everything there, without wretchedness.
What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become
a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram's being
comfortable without her.  She was of use to no one else;
but _there_ she might be missed to a degree that she did
not like to think of; and that part of the arrangement
was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,
and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park.  When he had really
resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through;
and now by dint of long talking on the subject,
explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny's sometimes
seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;
obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction,
for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than
that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore
that she must.  In the calmness of her own dressing-room,
in the impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by
his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any
necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father and mother
who had done without her so long, while she was so useful
to herself.  And as to the not missing her, which under
Mrs. Norris's discussion was the point attempted to be proved,
she set herself very steadily against admitting any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity.
He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness
and self-command as such.  But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade
her that Fanny could be very well spared--_she_ being
ready to give up all her own time to her as requested--
and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

"That may be, sister," was all Lady Bertram's reply.
"I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall miss
her very much."

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth.  Fanny wrote
to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short,
was so kind--a few simple lines expressed so natural and
motherly a joy in the prospect of seeing her child again,
as to confirm all the daughter's views of happiness in
being with her--convincing her that she should now find
a warm and affectionate friend in the "mama" who had
certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly;
but this she could easily suppose to have been her own
fault or her own fancy.  She had probably alienated love
by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper,
or been unreasonable in wanting a larger share than
any one among so many could deserve.  Now, when she
knew better how to be useful, and how to forbear,
and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the
incessant demands of a house full of little children,
there would be leisure and inclination for every comfort,
and they should soon be what mother and daughter ought
to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister.
It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there
to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find
her there still when he came in from his first cruise.
And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush
before she went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly
the finest sloop in the service--and there were several
improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to
shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home
for a while would be a great advantage to everybody.

"I do not know how it is," said he; "but we seem to want
some of your nice ways and orderliness at my father's. The
house is always in confusion.  You will set things going
in a better way, I am sure.  You will tell my mother how it
all ought to be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you
will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind you.
How right and comfortable it will all be!"

By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there remained
but a very few days more to be spent at Mansfield;
and for part of one of those days the young travellers
were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of their
journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of,
and Mrs. Norris found that all her anxiety to save her
brother-in-law's money was vain, and that in spite of her
wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fanny,
they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually
give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with
the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage,
and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go
with them, to go and see her poor dear sister Price.
She proclaimed her thoughts.  She must say that she
had more than half a mind to go with the young people;
it would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen
her poor dear sister Price for more than twenty years;
and it would be a help to the young people in their journey
to have her older head to manage for them; and she could
not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would feel it
very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would
be destroyed at once.  With woeful countenances they
looked at each other.  Their suspense lasted an hour
or two.  No one interfered to encourage or dissuade.
Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself;
and it ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece,
in the recollection that she could not possibly be spared
from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a great deal
too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be
able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a week,
and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure
to that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken
to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible
for her to avoid paying her own expenses back again.
So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the
disappointment of her missing such an opportunity,
and another twenty years' absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey,
this absence of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make
to Mansfield Park as well as his aunt.  He had intended,
about this time, to be going to London; but he could
not leave his father and mother just when everybody else
of most importance to their comfort was leaving them;
and with an effort, felt but not boasted of, he delayed
for a week or two longer a journey which he was looking
forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness
for ever.

He told Fanny of it.  She knew so much already,
that she must know everything.  It made the substance
of one other confidential discourse about Miss Crawford;
and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to be
the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever
be mentioned between them with any remains of liberty.
Once afterwards she was alluded to by him.  Lady Bertram had
been telling her niece in the evening to write to her soon
and often, and promising to be a good correspondent herself;
and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added in a whisper,
"And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything
worth writing about, anything to say that I think you
will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon
from any other quarter."  Had she doubted his meaning
while she listened, the glow in his face, when she looked
up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself.  That a
letter from Edmund should be a subject of terror!
She began to feel that she had not yet gone through all
the changes of opinion and sentiment which the progress
of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this
world of changes.  The vicissitudes of the human mind
had not yet been exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly,
the last evening at Mansfield Park must still
be wretchedness.  Her heart was completely sad at parting.
She had tears for every room in the house, much more
for every beloved inhabitant.  She clung to her aunt,
because she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her
uncle with struggling sobs, because she had displeased him;
and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look,
nor think, when the last moment came with _him_; and it
was not till it was over that she knew he was giving
her the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to
begin very early in the morning; and when the small,
diminished party met at breakfast, William and Fanny
were talked of as already advanced one stage.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being
with William, soon produced their natural effect on
Fanny's spirits, when Mansfield Park was fairly left behind;
and by the time their first stage was ended, and they
were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take
leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages,
with cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there
was no end.  Everything supplied an amusement to the high
glee of William's mind, and he was full of frolic and
joke in the intervals of their higher-toned subjects,
all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise
of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed,
schemes for an action with some superior force,
which (supposing the first lieutenant out of the way,
and William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant)
was to give himself the next step as soon as possible,
or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously
distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough
to make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny
were to pass all their middle and later life together.

Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they involved
Mr. Crawford, made no part of their conversation.
William knew what had passed, and from his heart lamented
that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards a man
whom he must consider as the first of human characters;
but he was of an age to be all for love, and therefore
unable to blame; and knowing her wish on the subject,
he would not distress her by the slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by
Mr. Crawford.  She had heard repeatedly from his sister within
the three weeks which had passed since their leaving Mansfield,
and in each letter there had been a few lines from himself,
warm and determined like his speeches.  It was a correspondence
which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had feared.
Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate,
was itself an evil, independent of what she was thus
forced into reading from the brother's pen, for Edmund
would never rest till she had read the chief of the letter
to him; and then she had to listen to his admiration
of her language, and the warmth of her attachments.
There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion,
of recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter,
that Fanny could not but suppose it meant for him to hear;
and to find herself forced into a purpose of that kind,
compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her
the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging
her to administer to the adverse passion of the man she did,
was cruelly mortifying.  Here, too, her present removal
promised advantage.  When no longer under the same roof
with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have no
motive for writing strong enough to overcome the trouble,
and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle
into nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others,
Fanny proceeded in her journey safely and cheerfully,
and as expeditiously as could rationally be hoped
in the dirty month of February.  They entered Oxford,
but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's
college as they passed along, and made no stop anywhere
till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable meal,
uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments and
fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour;
and with no events, and no delays, they regularly advanced,
and were in the environs of Portsmouth while there was yet
daylight for Fanny to look around her, and wonder at the
new buildings.  They passed the drawbridge, and entered
the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as,
guided by William's powerful voice, they were rattled
into a narrow street, leading from the High Street,
and drawn up before the door of a small house now inhabited
by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension.
The moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant,
seemingly in waiting for them at the door, stepped forward,
and more intent on telling the news than giving them any help,
immediately began with, "The Thrush is gone out of harbour,
please sir, and one of the officers has been here to--"
She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years old,
who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside,
and while William was opening the chaise-door himself,
called out, "You are just in time.  We have been looking
for you this half-hour. The Thrush went out of harbour
this morning.  I saw her.  It was a beautiful sight.
And they think she will have her orders in a day or two.
And Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you:
he has got one of the Thrush's boats, and is going off
to her at six, and hoped you would be here in time to go
with him."

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of
the carriage, was all the voluntary notice which this
brother bestowed; but he made no objection to her
kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing
farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour,
in which he had a strong right of interest, being to
commence his career of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage
of the house, and in her mother's arms, who met her
there with looks of true kindness, and with features
which Fanny loved the more, because they brought her aunt
Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:
Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey,
the youngest of the family, about five--both glad to see
her in their way, though with no advantage of manner
in receiving her.  But manner Fanny did not want.
Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her
first conviction was of its being only a passage-room
to something better, and she stood for a moment expecting
to be invited on; but when she saw there was no other door,
and that there were signs of habitation before her,
she called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved
lest they should have been suspected.  Her mother,
however, could not stay long enough to suspect anything.
She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome William.
"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you.
But have you heard about the Thrush?  She is gone out of
harbour already; three days before we had any thought of it;
and I do not know what I am to do about Sam's things,
they will never be ready in time; for she may have her orders
to-morrow, perhaps.  It takes me quite unawares.  And now
you must be off for Spithead too.  Campbell has been here,
quite in a worry about you; and now what shall we do?
I thought to have had such a comfortable evening with you,
and here everything comes upon me at once."

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything
was always for the best; and making light of his own
inconvenience in being obliged to hurry away so soon.

"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour,
that I might have sat a few hours with you in comfort;
but as there is a boat ashore, I had better go off at once,
and there is no help for it.  Whereabouts does the Thrush
lay at Spithead?  Near the Canopus?  But no matter;
here's Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in
the passage?  Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your
own dear Fanny yet."

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed
her daughter again, and commented a little on her growth,
began with very natural solicitude to feel for their
fatigues and wants as travellers.

"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now,
what will you have?  I began to think you would never come.
Betsey and I have been watching for you this half-hour.
And when did you get anything to eat?  And what would you
like to have now?  I could not tell whether you would be
for some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey,
or else I would have got something ready.  And now I
am afraid Campbell will be here before there is time
to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand.
It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street.
We were better off in our last house.  Perhaps you would
like some tea as soon as it can be got."

They both declared they should prefer it to anything.
"Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca
has put the water on; and tell her to bring in the tea-things
as soon as she can.  I wish we could get the bell mended;
but Betsey is a very handy little messenger."

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities
before her fine new sister.

"Dear me!" continued the anxious mother, "what a sad
fire we have got, and I dare say you are both starved
with cold.  Draw your chair nearer, my dear.  I cannot
think what Rebecca has been about.  I am sure I told her
to bring some coals half an hour ago.  Susan, you should
have taken care of the fire."

"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things," said Susan,
in a fearless, self-defending tone, which startled Fanny.
"You know you had but just settled that my sister Fanny
and I should have the other room; and I could not get
Rebecca to give me any help."

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles:
first, the driver came to be paid; then there was a squabble
between Sam and Rebecca about the manner of carrying up
his sister's trunk, which he would manage all his own way;
and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud
voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind
he kicked away his son's port-manteau and his daughter's
bandbox in the passage, and called out for a candle;
no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him,
but sank down again on finding herself undistinguished
in the dusk, and unthought of.  With a friendly shake
of his son's hand, and an eager voice, he instantly began--
"Ha! welcome back, my boy.  Glad to see you.  Have you heard
the news?  The Thrush went out of harbour this morning.
Sharp is the word, you see!  By G--, you are just in time!
The doctor has been here inquiring for you:  he has got
one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by six,
so you had better go with him.  I have been to Turner's
about your mess; it is all in a way to be done.
I should not wonder if you had your orders to-morrow:
but you cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise
to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will certainly
have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant.
By G--, I wish you may!  But old Scholey was saying,
just now, that he thought you would be sent first to
the Texel.  Well, well, we are ready, whatever happens.
But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here
in the morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour!
I would not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds.
Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time, to say she had
slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up,
and made but two steps to the platform.  If ever there
was a perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays
at Spithead, and anybody in England would take her for an
eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform two hours this
afternoon looking at her.  She lays close to the Endymion,
between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the
sheer hulk."

"Ha!" cried William, "_that's_ just where I should have
put her myself.  It's the best berth at Spithead.
But here is my sister, sir; here is Fanny," turning and
leading her forward; "it is so dark you do not see her."

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her,
Mr. Price now received his daughter; and having given
her a cordial hug, and observed that she was grown into
a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a husband soon,
seemed very much inclined to forget her again.
Fanny shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly
pained by his language and his smell of spirits;
and he talked on only to his son, and only of the Thrush,
though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,
more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny,
and her long absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained;
but as there was still no appearance of tea, nor, from
Betsey's reports from the kitchen, much hope of any under
a considerable period, William determined to go and change
his dress, and make the necessary preparations for his removal
on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort
afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty,
about eight and nine years old, rushed into it just released
from school, and coming eagerly to see their sister,
and tell that the Thrush was gone out of harbour;
Tom and Charles.  Charles had been born since Fanny's
going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse,
and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again.
Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted
to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby
she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference
of herself.  Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment:
he came home not to stand and be talked to, but to run about
and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from her,
and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained
only two brothers between herself and Susan,
one of whom was a clerk in a public office in London,
and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman.
But though she had _seen_ all the members of the family,
she had not yet _heard_ all the noise they could make.
Another quarter of an hour brought her a great deal more.
William was soon calling out from the landing-place
of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca.
He was in distress for something that he had left there,
and did not find again.  A key was mislaid, Betsey accused
of having got at his new hat, and some slight, but essential
alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been
promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves,
all talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job
was to be done as well as it could in a great hurry;
William trying in vain to send Betsey down again, or keep
her from being troublesome where she was; the whole of which,
as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly
distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals
by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing
each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned.  The smallness of the house
and thinness of the walls brought everything so close
to her, that, added to the fatigue of her journey, and all
her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to bear it.
_Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having
disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father
and herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper,
the accustomary loan of a neighbour, applied himself to
studying it, without seeming to recollect her existence.
The solitary candle was held between himself and the paper,
without any reference to her possible convenience;
but she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light
screened from her aching head, as she sat in bewildered,
broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home.  But, alas! it was not such a home,
she had not such a welcome, as--she checked herself;
she was unreasonable.  What right had she to be of importance
to her family?  She could have none, so long lost sight of!
William's concerns must be dearest, they always had been,
and he had every right.  Yet to have so little said
or asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made
after Mansfield!  It did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten;
the friends who had done so much--the dear, dear friends!
But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest.
Perhaps it must be so.  The destination of the Thrush
must be now preeminently interesting.  A day or two
might shew the difference.  _She_ only was to blame.
Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield.
No, in her uncle's house there would have been a
consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject,
a propriety, an attention towards everybody which there
was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received
for nearly half an hour was from a sudden burst of her
father's, not at all calculated to compose them.  At a more
than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing in the passage,
he exclaimed, "Devil take those young dogs!  How they are
singing out!  Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest!
That boy is fit for a boatswain.  Holla, you there!
Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I shall be after you."

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though
within five minutes afterwards the three boys all burst
into the room together and sat down, Fanny could not
consider it as a proof of anything more than their being
for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces
and panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they
were still kicking each other's shins, and hallooing
out at sudden starts immediately under their father's eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome:
it was for the tea-things, which she had begun almost
to despair of seeing that evening.  Susan and an
attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed Fanny,
to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the
upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal;
Susan looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced
at her sister, as if divided between the agreeable triumph
of shewing her activity and usefulness, and the dread
of being thought to demean herself by such an office.
"She had been into the kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally
and help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter,
or she did not know when they should have got tea,
and she was sure her sister must want something after
her journey."

Fanny was very thankful.  She could not but own that she
should be very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately
set about making it, as if pleased to have the employment
all to herself; and with only a little unnecessary bustle,
and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers
in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.
Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head
and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness.
Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William,
and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition
and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered,
followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey.
He, complete in his lieutenant's uniform, looking and
moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful for it,
and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly
to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a
moment in speechless admiration, and then threw her arms
round his neck to sob out her various emotions of pain and
pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself;
and wiping away her tears, was able to notice and admire
all the striking parts of his dress; listening with reviving
spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on shore some part
of every day before they sailed, and even of getting
her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon
of the Thrush, a very well-behaved young man, who came
to call for his friend, and for whom there was with some
contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty washing of
the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after another
quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen,
noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and
boys at last all in motion together, the moment came
for setting off; everything was ready, William took leave,
and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite
of their mother's entreaty, determined to see their brother
and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked
off at the same time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for;
and accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on
to carry away the tea-things, and Mrs. Price had walked
about the room some time looking for a shirt-sleeve, which
Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen,
the small party of females were pretty well composed,
and the mother having lamented again over the impossibility
of getting Sam ready in time, was at leisure to think
of her eldest daughter and the friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began:  but one of the earliest--"How did
sister Bertram manage about her servants?"  "Was she
as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?"--
soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it
on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character
of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her
own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely.
The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults
of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to depose,
and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem
so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny
could not help modestly presuming that her mother meant
to part with her when her year was up.

"Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "I am sure I hope I
shall be rid of her before she has staid a year,
for that will not be up till November.  Servants are come
to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is quite
a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year.
I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to
part with Rebecca, I should only get something worse.
And yet I do not think I am a very difficult mistress
to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough,
for there is always a girl under her, and I often do half
the work myself."

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there
might not be a remedy found for some of these evils.
As she now sat looking at Betsey, she could not but think
particularly of another sister, a very pretty little girl,
whom she had left there not much younger when she went
into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards.
There had been something remarkably amiable about her.
Fanny in those early days had preferred her to Susan;
and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield,
had for a short time been quite afflicted.  The sight
of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again,
but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her
for the world.  While considering her with these ideas,
Betsey, at a small distance, was holding out something to
catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from
Susan's.

"What have you got there, my love?" said Fanny;
"come and shew it to me."

It was a silver knife.  Up jumped Susan, claiming it
as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran
to her mother's protection, and Susan could only reproach,
which she did very warmly, and evidently hoping to
interest Fanny on her side.  "It was very hard that she
was not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife;
little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed,
and she ought to have had it to keep herself long ago.
But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey
get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey
would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama
had _promised_ her that Betsey should not have it in her
own hands."

Fanny was quite shocked.  Every feeling of duty,
honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's
speech and her mother's reply.

"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice,
"now, how can you be so cross?  You are always quarrelling
about that knife.  I wish you would not be so quarrelsome.
Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you!  But you
should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you
to the drawer.  You know I told you not to touch it,
because Susan is so cross about it.  I must hide it
another time, Betsey.  Poor Mary little thought it would
be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep,
only two hours before she died.  Poor little soul! she could
but just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister
Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.'
Poor little dear! she was so fond of it, Fanny, that she
would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness.
It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral
Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death.
Poor little sweet creature!  Well, she was taken away
from evil to come.  My own Betsey" (fondling her),
"_you_ have not the luck of such a good godmother.
Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little
people as you."

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris,
but a message to say she hoped that her god-daughter
was a good girl, and learnt her book.  There had been
at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room
at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book;
but no second sound had been heard of such a purpose.
Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home and taken down two
old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,
upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off.
One was found to have too small a print for a child's eyes,
and the other to be too cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept
the first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey
had finished her cry at being allowed to sit up only one
hour extraordinary in honour of sister, she was off,
leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys
begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his
rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined
and scantily furnished chamber that she was to share
with Susan.  The smallness of the rooms above and below,
indeed, and the narrowness of the passage and staircase,
struck her beyond her imagination.  She soon learned to think
with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park,
in _that_ house reckoned too small for anybody's comfort.



CHAPTER XXXIX

Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings,
when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would
not have despaired; for though a good night's rest,
a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again,
and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom
and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of
his own, and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her
to express herself cheerfully on the subject of home,
there were still, to her own perfect consciousness,
many drawbacks suppressed.  Could he have seen only half
that she felt before the end of a week, he would have
thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with
his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment.
In the first place, William was gone.  The Thrush
had had her orders, the wind had changed, and he was
sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth;
and during those days she had seen him only twice,
in a short and hurried way, when he had come ashore
on duty.  There had been no free conversation, no walk
on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance
with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned
and depended on.  Everything in that quarter failed her,
except William's affection.  His last thought on leaving
home was for her.  He stepped back again to the door
to say, "Take care of Fanny, mother.  She is tender,
and not used to rough it like the rest of us.  I charge you,
take care of Fanny."

William was gone:  and the home he had left her in was,
Fanny could not conceal it from herself, in almost every
respect the very reverse of what she could have wished.
It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety.
Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought
to be.  She could not respect her parents as she had hoped.
On her father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he
was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse,
and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for.
He did not want abilities but he had no curiosity,
and no information beyond his profession; he read only
the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of
the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank;
he swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross.
She had never been able to recall anything approaching
to tenderness in his former treatment of herself.
There had remained only a general impression of roughness
and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed her,
but to make her the object of a coarse joke.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater:
_there_ she had hoped much, and found almost nothing.
Every flattering scheme of being of consequence to her
soon fell to the ground.  Mrs. Price was not unkind;
but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence,
and becoming more and more dear, her daughter never met
with greater kindness from her than on the first day of
her arrival.  The instinct of nature was soon satisfied,
and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source.
Her heart and her time were already quite full;
she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny.
Her daughters never had been much to her.  She was fond
of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the first
of her girls whom she had ever much regarded.  To her she
was most injudiciously indulgent.  William was her pride;
Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles
occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately
her worries and her comforts.  These shared her heart:
her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants.
Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy
without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it,
without altering her ways; wishing to be an economist,
without contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied with
her servants, without skill to make them better,
and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them,
without any power of engaging their respect.

Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady
Bertram than Mrs. Norris.  She was a manager by necessity,
without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it, or any
of her activity.  Her disposition was naturally easy
and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of similar
affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials
of the one which her imprudent marriage had placed her in.
She might have made just as good a woman of consequence
as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more
respectable mother of nine children on a small income.

Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of.
She might scruple to make use of the words, but she
must and did feel that her mother was a partial,
ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught
nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene
of mismanagement and discomfort from beginning to end,
and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection
towards herself; no curiosity to know her better,
no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her
company that could lessen her sense of such feelings.

Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above
her home, or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her
foreign education, from contributing her help to its comforts,
and therefore set about working for Sam immediately;
and by working early and late, with perseverance and
great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped
off at last, with more than half his linen ready.
She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could
not conceive how they would have managed without her.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted
when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad
to be employed in any errand in the town; and though
spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as they were,
though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed
and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced
by Fanny's services and gentle persuasions; and she found
that the best of the three younger ones was gone in him:
Tom and Charles being at least as many years as they were
his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason,
which might suggest the expediency of making friends,
and of endeavouring to be less disagreeable.  Their sister
soon despaired of making the smallest impression on _them_;
they were quite untameable by any means of address which she
had spirits or time to attempt.  Every afternoon brought
a return of their riotous games all over the house; and she
very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's
constant half-holiday.

Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the
alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants
at her pleasure, and then encouraged to report any evil
of them, she was almost as ready to despair of being
able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she had
many doubts.  Her continual disagreements with her mother,
her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance
with Betsey, were at least so distressing to Fanny that,
though admitting they were by no means without provocation,
she feared the disposition that could push them to such
length must be far from amiable, and from affording
any repose to herself.

Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of
her head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with
moderated feelings.  On the contrary, she could think of
nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways.
Everything where she now was in full contrast to it.
The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps,
above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield,
were brought to her remembrance every hour of the day,
by the prevalence of everything opposite to them _here_.

The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper
delicate and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no
superadded elegance or harmony could have entirely
atoned for.  It was the greatest misery of all.
At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice,
no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, was ever heard;
all proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderliness;
everybody had their due importance; everybody's feelings
were consulted.  If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting,
good sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to
the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris,
they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop
of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless
tumult of her present abode.  Here everybody was noisy,
every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's,
which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's,
only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was
hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out their excuses
from the kitchen.  The doors were in constant banging,
the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done without
a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command
attention when they spoke.

In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her
before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply
to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judgment as to matrimony
and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield Park might
have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.



CHAPTER XL

Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear from Miss
Crawford now at the rapid rate in which their correspondence
had begun; Mary's next letter was after a decidedly longer
interval than the last, but she was not right in supposing
that such an interval would be felt a great relief
to herself.  Here was another strange revolution of mind!
She was really glad to receive the letter when it did come.
In her present exile from good society, and distance from
everything that had been wont to interest her, a letter
from one belonging to the set where her heart lived,
written with affection, and some degree of elegance,
was thoroughly acceptable.  The usual plea of increasing
engagements was made in excuse for not having
written to her earlier; "And now that I have begun,"
she continued, "my letter will not be worth your reading,
for there will be no little offering of love at the end,
no three or four lines _passionnees_ from the most
devoted H. C. in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk;
business called him to Everingham ten days ago,
or perhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of being
travelling at the same time that you were.  But there
he is, and, by the bye, his absence may sufficiently account
for any remissness of his sister's in writing, for there
has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny?
Is not it time for you to write to Fanny?' to spur me on.
At last, after various attempts at meeting, I have seen
your cousins, 'dear Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth';
they found me at home yesterday, and we were glad to
see each other again.  We _seemed_ _very_ glad to see
each other, and I do really think we were a little.
We had a vast deal to say.  Shall I tell you how
Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was mentioned?
I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession,
but she had not quite enough for the demands of yesterday.
Upon the whole, Julia was in the best looks of the two,
at least after you were spoken of.  There was no
recovering the complexion from the moment that I spoke
of 'Fanny,' and spoke of her as a sister should.
But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks will come;
we have cards for her first party on the 28th.  Then she
will be in beauty, for she will open one of the best
houses in Wimpole Street.  I was in it two years ago,
when it was Lady Lascelle's, and prefer it to almost
any I know in London, and certainly she will then feel,
to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her pennyworth
for her penny.  Henry could not have afforded her such
a house.  I hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied,
as well as she may, with moving the queen of a palace,
though the king may appear best in the background;
and as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never _force_
your name upon her again.  She will grow sober by degrees.
From all that I hear and guess, Baron Wildenheim's
attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he
has any serious encouragement.  She ought to do better.
A poor honourable is no catch, and I cannot imagine any
liking in the case, for take away his rants, and the poor
baron has nothing.  What a difference a vowel makes!
If his rents were but equal to his rants!  Your cousin
Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by parish duties.
There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted.
I am unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a _young_ one.
Adieu! my dear sweet Fanny, this is a long letter from London:
write me a pretty one in reply to gladden Henry's eyes,
when he comes back, and send me an account of all the dashing
young captains whom you disdain for his sake."

There was great food for meditation in this letter,
and chiefly for unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all
the uneasiness it supplied, it connected her with the absent,
it told her of people and things about whom she had never
felt so much curiosity as now, and she would have been
glad to have been sure of such a letter every week.
Her correspondence with her aunt Bertram was her only
concern of higher interest.

As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at all make
amends for deficiencies at home, there were none within
the circle of her father's and mother's acquaintance
to afford her the smallest satisfaction:  she saw nobody
in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own
shyness and reserve.  The men appeared to her all coarse,
the women all pert, everybody underbred; and she gave
as little contentment as she received from introductions
either to old or new acquaintance.  The young ladies who
approached her at first with some respect, in consideration
of her coming from a baronet's family, were soon offended
by what they termed "airs"; for, as she neither played
on the pianoforte nor wore fine pelisses, they could,
on farther observation, admit no right of superiority.

The first solid consolation which Fanny received for
the evils of home, the first which her judgment could
entirely approve, and which gave any promise of durability,
was in a better knowledge of Susan, and a hope of being
of service to her.  Susan had always behaved pleasantly
to herself, but the determined character of her general
manners had astonished and alarmed her, and it was at least
a fortnight before she began to understand a disposition
so totally different from her own.  Susan saw that much
was wrong at home, and wanted to set it right.  That a girl
of fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason,
should err in the method of reform, was not wonderful;
and Fanny soon became more disposed to admire the natural
light of the mind which could so early distinguish justly,
than to censure severely the faults of conduct to which it led.
Susan was only acting on the same truths, and pursuing
the same system, which her own judgment acknowledged,
but which her more supine and yielding temper would
have shrunk from asserting.  Susan tried to be useful,
where _she_ could only have gone away and cried; and that
Susan was useful she could perceive; that things, bad as
they were, would have been worse but for such interposition,
and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained from
some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.

In every argument with her mother, Susan had in point
of reason the advantage, and never was there any maternal
tenderness to buy her off.  The blind fondness which was
for ever producing evil around her she had never known.
There was no gratitude for affection past or present
to make her better bear with its excesses to the others.

All this became gradually evident, and gradually placed
Susan before her sister as an object of mingled compassion
and respect.  That her manner was wrong, however, at times
very wrong, her measures often ill-chosen and ill-timed,
and her looks and language very often indefensible,
Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they
might be rectified.  Susan, she found, looked up to her
and wished for her good opinion; and new as anything like an
office of authority was to Fanny, new as it was to imagine
herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did
resolve to give occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour
to exercise for her advantage the juster notions of what was
due to everybody, and what would be wisest for herself,
which her own more favoured education had fixed in her.

Her influence, or at least the consciousness and use of it,
originated in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many
hesitations of delicacy, she at last worked herself up to.
It had very early occurred to her that a small sum
of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on the
sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now
was continually, and the riches which she was in possession
of herself, her uncle having given her 10 at parting,
made her as able as she was willing to be generous.
But she was so wholly unused to confer favours,
except on the very poor, so unpractised in removing evils,
or bestowing kindnesses among her equals, and so fearful
of appearing to elevate herself as a great lady at home,
that it took some time to determine that it would not be
unbecoming in her to make such a present.  It was made,
however, at last:  a silver knife was bought for Betsey,
and accepted with great delight, its newness giving it
every advantage over the other that could be desired;
Susan was established in the full possession of her own,
Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got one so much
prettier herself, she should never want _that_ again; and no
reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother,
which Fanny had almost feared to be impossible.  The deed
thoroughly answered:  a source of domestic altercation
was entirely done away, and it was the means of opening
Susan's heart to her, and giving her something more to love
and be interested in.  Susan shewed that she had delicacy:
pleased as she was to be mistress of property which she
had been struggling for at least two years, she yet
feared that her sister's judgment had been against her,
and that a reproof was designed her for having so struggled
as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of
the house.

Her temper was open.  She acknowledged her fears,
blamed herself for having contended so warmly;
and from that hour Fanny, understanding the worth of her
disposition and perceiving how fully she was inclined
to seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment,
began to feel again the blessing of affection, and to
entertain the hope of being useful to a mind so much in
need of help, and so much deserving it.  She gave advice,
advice too sound to be resisted by a good understanding,
and given so mildly and considerately as not to irritate
an imperfect temper, and she had the happiness of observing
its good effects not unfrequently.  More was not expected
by one who, while seeing all the obligation and expediency
of submission and forbearance, saw also with sympathetic
acuteness of feeling all that must be hourly grating
to a girl like Susan.  Her greatest wonder on the subject
soon became--not that Susan should have been provoked into
disrespect and impatience against her better knowledge--
but that so much better knowledge, so many good notions
should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the
midst of negligence and error, she should have formed
such proper opinions of what ought to be; she, who had
had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix her principles.

The intimacy thus begun between them was a material
advantage to each.  By sitting together upstairs,
they avoided a great deal of the disturbance of the house;
Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to think it no
misfortune to be quietly employed.  They sat without
a fire; but that was a privation familiar even to Fanny,
and she suffered the less because reminded by it of
the East room.  It was the only point of resemblance.
In space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was nothing
alike in the two apartments; and she often heaved a sigh
at the remembrance of all her books and boxes, and various
comforts there.  By degrees the girls came to spend the
chief of the morning upstairs, at first only in working
and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance of the
said books grew so potent and stimulative that Fanny found
it impossible not to try for books again.  There were none
in her father's house; but wealth is luxurious and daring,
and some of hers found its way to a circulating library.
She became a subscriber; amazed at being anything _in
propria persona_, amazed at her own doings in every way,
to be a renter, a chuser of books!  And to be having any
one's improvement in view in her choice!  But so it was.
Susan had read nothing, and Fanny longed to give her
a share in her own first pleasures, and inspire a taste
for the biography and poetry which she delighted in herself.

In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury some
of the recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt
to seize her mind if her fingers only were busy;
and, especially at this time, hoped it might be useful
in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London,
whither, on the authority of her aunt's last letter,
she knew he was gone.  She had no doubt of what would ensue.
The promised notification was hanging over her head.
The postman's knock within the neighbourhood was beginning
to bring its daily terrors, and if reading could banish
the idea for even half an hour, it was something gained.



CHAPTER XLI

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed
in town, and Fanny had heard nothing of him.
There were three different conclusions to be drawn from
his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation;
each of them at times being held the most probable.
Either his going had been again delayed, or he had yet
procured no opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford alone,
or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly
four weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never failed
to think over and calculate every day, as she and Susan
were preparing to remove, as usual, upstairs, they were
stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they could
not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the door,
a duty which always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny
was just turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked
into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really
called upon; and she found that she had been able to name
him to her mother, and recall her remembrance of the name,
as that of "William's friend," though she could not
previously have believed herself capable of uttering a
syllable at such a moment.  The consciousness of his being
known there only as William's friend was some support.
Having introduced him, however, and being all reseated,
the terrors that occurred of what this visit might lead
to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point
of fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had
at first approached her with as animated a countenance
as ever, was wisely and kindly keeping his eyes away,
and giving her time to recover, while he devoted himself
entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending to
her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same
time with a degree of friendliness, of interest at least,
which was making his manner perfect.

Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best.  Warmed by
the sight of such a friend to her son, and regulated
by the wish of appearing to advantage before him, she was
overflowing with gratitude--artless, maternal gratitude--
which could not be unpleasing.  Mr. Price was out,
which she regretted very much.  Fanny was just recovered
enough to feel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her
many other sources of uneasiness was added the severe
one of shame for the home in which he found her.
She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was
no scolding it away.  She was ashamed, and she would have
been yet more ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price
could never tire; and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his
commendation as even her heart could wish.  She felt
that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life;
and was only astonished to find that, so great and so
agreeable as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth
neither on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the commissioner,
nor yet with the intention of going over to the island,
nor of seeing the dockyard.  Nothing of all that she
had been used to think of as the proof of importance,
or the employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth.
He had reached it late the night before, was come for a
day or two, was staying at the Crown, had accidentally
met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since
his arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not
unreasonable to suppose that Fanny might be looked at
and spoken to; and she was tolerably able to bear his eye,
and hear that he had spent half an hour with his sister
the evening before his leaving London; that she had sent
her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing;
that he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half
an hour, having spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London,
after his return from Norfolk, before he set off again;
that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in town,
he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself,
but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield,
and was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned
circumstance; nay, it seemed a relief to her worn
mind to be at any certainty; and the words, "then by
this time it is all settled," passed internally,
without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject
in which her interest was most apparent, Crawford began
to hint at the expediency of an early walk.  "It was a
lovely morning, and at that season of the year a fine morning
so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody not
to delay their exercise"; and such hints producing nothing,
he soon proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price
and her daughters to take their walk without loss of time.
Now they came to an understanding.  Mrs. Price, it appeared,
scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday;
she owned she could seldom, with her large family,
find time for a walk.  "Would she not, then, persuade her
daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow
him the pleasure of attending them?"  Mrs. Price was
greatly obliged and very complying.  "Her daughters
were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place;
they did not often get out; and she knew they had some
errands in the town, which they would be very glad to do."
And the consequence was, that Fanny, strange as it was--
strange, awkward, and distressing--found herself and Susan,
within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street
with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion;
for they were hardly in the High Street before they met
her father, whose appearance was not the better from its
being Saturday.  He stopt; and, ungentlemanlike as he looked,
Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford.
She could not have a doubt of the manner in which
Mr. Crawford must be struck.  He must be ashamed
and disgusted altogether.  He must soon give her up,
and cease to have the smallest inclination for the match;
and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection
to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost
as bad as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely
a young lady in the United Kingdoms who would not rather
put up with the misfortune of being sought by a clever,
agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity
of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future
father-in-law with any idea of taking him for a model
in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to her great
relief, discerned) her father was a very different man,
a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most
highly respected stranger, from what he was in his own
family at home.  His manners now, though not polished,
were more than passable:  they were grateful, animated, manly;
his expressions were those of an attached father,
and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the
open air, and there was not a single oath to be heard.
Such was his instinctive compliment to the good manners
of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it might,
Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer
of Mr. Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard,
which Mr. Crawford, desirous of accepting as a favour
what was intended as such, though he had seen the dockyard
again and again, and hoping to be so much the longer
with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of,
if the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue;
and as it was somehow or other ascertained, or inferred,
or at least acted upon, that they were not at all afraid,
to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for
Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly,
without the smallest consideration for his daughters'
errands in the High Street.  He took care, however, that they
should be allowed to go to the shops they came out expressly
to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny could
so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for,
that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door,
could do more than begin upon the last naval regulations,
or settle the number of three-deckers now in commission,
their companions were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once,
and the walk would have been conducted--according to
Mr. Crawford's opinion--in a singular manner,
had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,
as the two girls, he found, would have been left
to follow, and keep up with them or not, as they could,
while they walked on together at their own hasty pace.
He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally,
though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely
would not walk away from them; and at any crossing
or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling out,
"Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of yourselves;
keep a sharp lookout!" he would give them his particular
attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon
some happy intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon
joined by a brother lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come
to take his daily survey of how things went on, and who
must prove a far more worthy companion than himself;
and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
going about together, and discussing matters of equal
and never-failing interest, while the young people sat down
upon some timbers in the yard, or found a seat on board
a vessel in the stocks which they all went to look at.
Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest.  Crawford could
not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down;
but he could have wished her sister away.  A quick-looking
girl of Susan's age was the very worst third in the world:
totally different from Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears;
and there was no introducing the main point before her.
He must content himself with being only generally agreeable,
and letting Susan have her share of entertainment,
with the indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint
for the better-informed and conscious Fanny.  Norfolk was
what he had mostly to talk of:  there he had been some time,
and everything there was rising in importance from his
present schemes.  Such a man could come from no place,
no society, without importing something to amuse;
his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,
and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her.
For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental
agreeableness of the parties he had been in.
For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into
Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given.
It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a
lease in which the welfare of a large and--he believed--
industrious family was at stake.  He had suspected his
agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias him
against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself,
and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case.
He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen,
had been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended,
and was now able to congratulate himself upon it, and to
feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable
recollections for his own mind.  He had introduced himself
to some tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun
making acquaintance with cottages whose very existence,
though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him.
This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny.  It was pleasing
to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting
as he ought to do.  To be the friend of the poor and
the oppressed!  Nothing could be more grateful to her;
and she was on the point of giving him an approving look,
when it was all frightened off by his adding a something
too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant,
a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity
for Everingham:  a somebody that would make Everingham
and all about it a dearer object than it had ever been
yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things.
She was willing to allow he might have more good
qualities than she had been wont to suppose.  She began
to feel the possibility of his turning out well at last;
but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham,
and that it would be as well to talk of something else,
and turned to Mansfield.  He could not have chosen better;
that was a topic to bring back her attention and her looks
almost instantly.  It was a real indulgence to her to hear
or to speak of Mansfield.  Now so long divided from
everybody who knew the place, she felt it quite the voice
of a friend when he mentioned it, and led the way to her
fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and comforts,
and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed
her to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium,
in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good,
and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so;
he looked forward with the hope of spending much, very much,
of his time there; always there, or in the neighbourhood.
He particularly built upon a very happy summer and
autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so:
he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior
to the last.  As animated, as diversified, as social,
but with circumstances of superiority undescribable.

"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued;
"what a society will be comprised in those houses!
And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth may be added:
some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so dear;
for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund
Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee
two objections:  two fair, excellent, irresistible objections
to that plan."

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment
was passed, could regret that she had not forced herself into
the acknowledged comprehension of one half of his meaning,
and encouraged him to say something more of his sister
and Edmund.  It was a subject which she must learn to speak of,
and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be quite
unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished,
or had time for, the others were ready to return;
and in the course of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived
a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that his only
business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come
down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only,
and because he could not endure a longer total separation.
She was sorry, really sorry; and yet in spite of this and the
two or three other things which she wished he had not said,
she thought him altogether improved since she had seen him;
he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other
people's feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield;
she had never seen him so agreeable--so _near_ being agreeable;
his behaviour to her father could not offend, and there
was something particularly kind and proper in the notice
he took of Susan.  He was decidedly improved.  She wished
the next day over, she wished he had come only for one day;
but it was not so very bad as she would have expected:
the pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure,
and one of no trivial kind.  Her father asked him to do
them the honour of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny
had time for only one thrill of horror, before he declared
himself prevented by a prior engagement.  He was engaged
to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met
with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied;
he should have the honour, however, of waiting on them
again on the morrow, etc., and so they parted--Fanny in
a state of actual felicity from escaping so horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see
all their deficiencies, would have been dreadful!
Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's
eating at table without restraint, and pulling everything
about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal.
_She_ was nice only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been
brought up in a school of luxury and epicurism.



CHAPTER XLII

The Prices were just setting off for church the next day
when Mr. Crawford appeared again.  He came, not to stop,
but to join them; he was asked to go with them to the
Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended,
and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage.  Nature had given
them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday
dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire.
Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this
Sunday she felt it more than ever.  Her poor mother now
did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's
sister as she was but too apt to look.  It often grieved
her to the heart to think of the contrast between them;
to think that where nature had made so little difference,
circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother,
as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior,
should have an appearance so much more worn and faded,
so comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby.  But Sunday
made her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-looking
Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children,
feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca
pass by with a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford
took care not to be divided from the female branch;
and after chapel he still continued with them, and made
one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every
fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly
after morning service and staying till dinner-time. It
was her public place:  there she met her acquaintance,
heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six
days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider
the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they
had been there long, somehow or other, there was no
saying how, Fanny could not have believed it, but he
was walking between them with an arm of each under his,
and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it.
It made her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there
were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would
be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely.  It was really March;
but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind,
and bright sun, occasionally clouded for a minute;
and everything looked so beautiful under the influence
of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each
other on the ships at Spithead and the island beyond,
with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water,
dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts with
so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination
of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless
of the circumstances under which she felt them.  Nay, had she
been without his arm, she would soon have known that she
needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours'
saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did,
upon a week's previous inactivity.  Fanny was beginning
to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual
regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health
since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford
and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked
up now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt
like herself.  They often stopt with the same sentiment
and taste, leaning against the wall, some minutes,
to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund,
Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open
to the charms of nature, and very well able to express
his admiration.  She had a few tender reveries now and then,
which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in her
face without detection; and the result of these looks was,
that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less
blooming than it ought to be.  She _said_ she was
very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise;
but take it all in all, he was convinced that her present
residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could
not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for
her being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness,
and his in seeing her, must be so much greater.

"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.

"No; not quite a month.  It is only four weeks to-morrow
since I left Mansfield."

"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner.  I should
call that a month."

"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."

"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?"

"Yes.  My uncle talked of two months.  I suppose it
will not be less."

"And how are you to be conveyed back again?  Who comes
for you?"

"I do not know.  I have heard nothing about it yet
from my aunt.  Perhaps I may be to stay longer.
It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly
at the two months' end."

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied,
"I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults
towards _you_.  I know the danger of your being so
far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family.
I am aware that you may be left here week after week,
if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself,
or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving
the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year.
This will not do.  Two months is an ample allowance;
I should think six weeks quite enough.  I am considering
your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to Susan,
"which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to.
She requires constant air and exercise.  When you know her
as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does,
and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air
and liberty of the country.  If, therefore" (turning again
to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any
difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield,
without waiting for the two months to be ended,
_that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence,
if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable
than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her
only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately
come down, and take you back to Mansfield.  You know
the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done.
You know all that would be felt on the occasion."

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know.
And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any
tendency to indisposition.  Indeed, you shall _not_;
it shall not be in your power; for so long only as you
positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,'
and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long
only shall you be considered as well."

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed
to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much,
or even to be certain of what she ought to say.
This was towards the close of their walk.  He attended
them to the last, and left them only at the door of their
own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner,
and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere.

"I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining
Fanny after all the others were in the house--"I wish I
left you in stronger health.  Is there anything I can
do for you in town?  I have half an idea of going into
Norfolk again soon.  I am not satisfied about Maddison.
I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible,
and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I
design for somebody else.  I must come to an understanding
with him.  I must make him know that I will not be
tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on
the north:  that I will be master of my own property.
I was not explicit enough with him before.  The mischief
such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his
employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable.
I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly,
and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot
be afterwards swerved from.  Maddison is a clever fellow;
I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try
to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped
by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me,
and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted,
griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,
to whom I have given half a promise already.  Would it not
be worse than simple?  Shall I go?  Do you advise it?"

"I advise!  You know very well what is right."

"Yes.  When you give me your opinion, I always know
what is right.  Your judgment is my rule of right."

"Oh, no! do not say so.  We have all a better guide
in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person
can be.  Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."

"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"

"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."

"Have you no message for anybody?"

"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see
my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good
as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him."

"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write
his excuses myself."

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained.
He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone.
_He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could,
with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner that
a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment,
and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character;
and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that
of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would
have wondered that her looks were not much more affected
than he found them.  She was so little equal to Rebecca's
puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they
all were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates,
and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was very
often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till she could
send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns.
After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the
day to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas,
had he known all, might have thought his niece in the
most promising way of being starved, both mind and body,
into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good company
and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push
his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day.
Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again,
she could not help being low.  It was parting with somebody
of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light,
glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now
deserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation
from Mansfield; and she could not think of his returning
to town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund,
without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate
herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing
around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always
happened if he was not with them, spent the long,
long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine,
there was little intermission of noise or grog.  She was
very low.  The wonderful improvement which she still
fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to administering
comfort of anything within the current of her thoughts.
Not considering in how different a circle she had been
just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast,
she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly
more gentle and regardful of others than formerly.
And, if in little things, must it not be so in great?
So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling
as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might not
it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer
persevere in a suit so distressing to her?



CHAPTER XLIII

It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back,
to London, on the morrow, for nothing more was seen
of him at Mr. Price's; and two days afterwards, it was
a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter from
his sister, opened and read by her, on another account,
with the most anxious curiosity:--

"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry
has been down to Portsmouth to see you; that he had a
delightful walk with you to the dockyard last Saturday,
and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,
on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea,
and your sweet looks and conversation were altogether
in the most delicious harmony, and afforded sensations
which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.  This, as well
as I understand, is to be the substance of my information.
He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to
be communicated, except this said visit to Portsmouth,
and these two said walks, and his introduction to
your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a fine
girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts,
taking her first lesson, I presume, in love.  I have
not time for writing much, but it would be out of place
if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of business,
penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information,
which could not be delayed without risk of evil.  My dear,
dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you!
You should listen to me till you were tired, and advise
me till you were still tired more; but it is impossible
to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper,
so I will abstain altogether, and leave you to guess what
you like.  I have no news for you.  You have politics,
of course; and it would be too bad to plague you with
the names of people and parties that fill up my time.
I ought to have sent you an account of your cousin's
first party, but I was lazy, and now it is too long ago;
suffice it, that everything was just as it ought to be,
in a style that any of her connexions must have been
gratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did
her the greatest credit.  My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad
for such a house, and it would not make _me_ miserable.
I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems in high spirits,
and very happy.  I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured
and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so
very ill-looking as I did--at least, one sees many worse.
He will not do by the side of your cousin Edmund.
Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say?  If I
avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.
I will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times,
and that my friends here are very much struck with his
gentlemanlike appearance.  Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge)
declares she knows but three men in town who have so good
a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he dined
here the other day, there were none to compare with him,
and we were a party of sixteen.  Luckily there is no
distinction of dress nowadays to tell tales, but--but--
but Yours affectionately."

"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault:  he gets into
my head more than does me good) one very material thing I
had to say from Henry and myself--I mean about our taking
you back into Northamptonshire.  My dear little creature,
do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.
Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health.
My poor aunt always felt affected if within ten miles
of the sea, which the Admiral of course never believed,
but I know it was so.  I am at your service and Henry's,
at an hour's notice.  I should like the scheme, and we would
make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way,
and perhaps you would not mind passing through London,
and seeing the inside of St. George's, Hanover Square.
Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such a time:
I should not like to be tempted.  What a long letter!
one word more.  Henry, I find, has some idea of going
into Norfolk again upon some business that _you_ approve;
but this cannot possibly be permitted before the middle
of next week; that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till
after the 14th, for _we_ have a party that evening.
The value of a man like Henry, on such an occasion,
is what you can have no conception of; so you must take it
upon my word to be inestimable.  He will see the Rushworths,
which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity,
and so I think has he--though he will not acknowledge
it."

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be
read deliberately, to supply matter for much reflection,
and to leave everything in greater suspense than ever.
The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that nothing
decisive had yet taken place.  Edmund had not yet spoken.
How Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act,
or might act without or against her meaning; whether his
importance to her were quite what it had been before
the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were likely
to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects
for endless conjecture, and to be thought of on that day
and many days to come, without producing any conclusion.
The idea that returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford,
after proving herself cooled and staggered by a return
to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end
too much attached to him to give him up.  She would
try to be more ambitious than her heart would allow.
She would hesitate, she would tease, she would condition,
she would require a great deal, but she would finally
accept.

This was Fanny's most frequent expectation.  A house
in town--that, she thought, must be impossible.
Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford might not ask.
The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse.
The woman who could speak of him, and speak only of
his appearance!  What an unworthy attachment!  To be
deriving support from the commendations of Mrs. Fraser!
_She_ who had known him intimately half a year!
Fanny was ashamed of her.  Those parts of the letter which
related only to Mr. Crawford and herself, touched her,
in comparison, slightly.  Whether Mr. Crawford went
into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly
no concern of hers, though, everything considered,
she thought he _would_ go without delay.  That Miss
Crawford should endeavour to secure a meeting between him
and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of conduct,
and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_
would not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity.
He acknowledged no such inducement, and his sister
ought to have given him credit for better feelings than
her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from
town after receiving this than she had been before;
and for a few days was so unsettled by it altogether,
by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended.
She could not command her attention as she wished.
If Mr. Crawford remembered her message to her cousin,
she thought it very likely, most likely, that he would write
to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it
gradually wore off, by no letters appearing in the course
of three or four days more, she was in a most restless,
anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded.
Suspense must be submitted to, and must not be allowed
to wear her out, and make her useless.  Time did something,
her own exertions something more, and she resumed her
attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest
in them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without
any of the early delight in books which had been
so strong in Fanny, with a disposition much less
inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information's sake, she had so strong a desire of not
_appearing_ ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding,
made her a most attentive, profitable, thankful pupil.
Fanny was her oracle.  Fanny's explanations and remarks
were a most important addition to every essay, or every
chapter of history.  What Fanny told her of former times
dwelt more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she
paid her sister the compliment of preferring her style
to that of any printed author.  The early habit of reading was
wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects
so high as history or morals.  Others had their hour;
and of lesser matters, none returned so often,
or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements,
the ways of Mansfield Park.  Susan, who had an innate taste
for the genteel and well-appointed, was eager to hear,
and Fanny could not but indulge herself in dwelling on
so beloved a theme.  She hoped it was not wrong; though,
after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything
said or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing
to go into Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame
her for exciting feelings which could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home
than her elder sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly
to understand this, she began to feel that when her
own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would
have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind.
That a girl so capable of being made everything good should
be left in such hands, distressed her more and more.
Were _she_ likely to have a home to invite her to,
what a blessing it would be!  And had it been possible
for her to return Mr. Crawford's regard, the probability
of his being very far from objecting to such a measure would
have been the greatest increase of all her own comforts.
She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy
his entering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.



CHAPTER XLIV

Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone,
when the one letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected,
was put into Fanny's hands.  As she opened, and saw
its length, she prepared herself for a minute detail
of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate.
These were the contents--

"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before.
Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear from me,
but I found it impossible to write from London,
and persuaded myself that you would understand my silence.
Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not
have been wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever
in my power.  I am returned to Mansfield in a less assured
state than when I left it.  My hopes are much weaker.
You are probably aware of this already.  So very fond of you
as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell
you enough of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess
at mine.  I will not be prevented, however, from making my
own communication.  Our confidences in you need not clash.
I ask no questions.  There is something soothing in the
idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever
unhappy differences of opinion may exist between us,
we are united in our love of you.  It will be a comfort
to me to tell you how things now are, and what are my
present plans, if plans I can be said to have.  I have been
returned since Saturday.  I was three weeks in London,
and saw her (for London) very often.  I had every attention
from the Frasers that could be reasonably expected.
I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with me
hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield.
It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency
of meeting.  Had she been different when I did see her,
I should have made no complaint, but from the very first
she was altered:  my first reception was so unlike
what I had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving
London again directly.  I need not particularise.
You know the weak side of her character, and may imagine
the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me.
She was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who
were giving all the support of their own bad sense
to her too lively mind.  I do not like Mrs. Fraser.
She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely
from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,
places her disappointment not to faults of judgment,
or temper, or disproportion of age, but to her being,
after all, less affluent than many of her acquaintance,
especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway, and is the
determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,
provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough.  I look
upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest
misfortune of her life and mine.  They have been leading
her astray for years.  Could she be detached from them!--
and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the affection
appears to me principally on their side.  They are very
fond of her; but I am sure she does not love them as she
loves you.  When I think of her great attachment to you,
indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright conduct
as a sister, she appears a very different creature,
capable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame
myself for a too harsh construction of a playful manner.
I cannot give her up, Fanny.  She is the only woman
in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife.
If I did not believe that she had some regard for me,
of course I should not say this, but I do believe it.
I am convinced that she is not without a decided preference.
I have no jealousy of any individual.  It is the influence
of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous of.
It is the habits of wealth that I fear.  Her ideas are
not higher than her own fortune may warrant, but they
are beyond what our incomes united could authorise.
There is comfort, however, even here.  I could better
bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because
of my profession.  That would only prove her affection
not equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scarcely
justified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I think,
will be the honest motive.  Her prejudices, I trust,
are not so strong as they were.  You have my thoughts
exactly as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are
sometimes contradictory, but it will not be a less faithful
picture of my mind.  Having once begun, it is a pleasure
to me to tell you all I feel.  I cannot give her up.
Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be,
to give up Mary Crawford would be to give up the society
of some of those most dear to me; to banish myself from
the very houses and friends whom, under any other distress,
I should turn to for consolation.  The loss of Mary I must
consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny.
Were it a decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I
should know how to bear it, and how to endeavour to weaken
her hold on my heart, and in the course of a few years--
but I am writing nonsense.  Were I refused, I must bear it;
and till I am, I can never cease to try for her.
This is the truth.  The only question is _how_?  What may
be the likeliest means?  I have sometimes thought of going
to London again after Easter, and sometimes resolved on
doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield.  Even now,
she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June;
but June is at a great distance, and I believe I shall
write to her.  I have nearly determined on explaining
myself by letter.  To be at an early certainty is a
material object.  My present state is miserably irksome.
Considering everything, I think a letter will be decidedly
the best method of explanation.  I shall be able to write
much that I could not say, and shall be giving her time
for reflection before she resolves on her answer,
and I am less afraid of the result of reflection
than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am.
My greatest danger would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser,
and I at a distance unable to help my own cause.
A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation,
and where the mind is anything short of perfect decision,
an adviser may, in an unlucky moment, lead it to do what it
may afterwards regret.  I must think this matter over
a little.  This long letter, full of my own concerns alone,
will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny.
The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party.
I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear
of him.  There is not a shadow of wavering.  He thoroughly
knows his own mind, and acts up to his resolutions:
an inestimable quality.  I could not see him and my eldest
sister in the same room without recollecting what you
once told me, and I acknowledge that they did not meet
as friends.  There was marked coolness on her side.
They scarcely spoke.  I saw him draw back surprised,
and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any
former supposed slight to Miss Bertram.  You will wish
to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a wife.
There is no appearance of unhappiness.  I hope they get
on pretty well together.  I dined twice in Wimpole Street,
and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifying
to be with Rushworth as a brother.  Julia seems to enjoy
London exceedingly.  I had little enjoyment there,
but have less here.  We are not a lively party.  You are
very much wanted.  I miss you more than I can express.
My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear
from you soon.  She talks of you almost every hour,
and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likely
to be without you.  My father means to fetch you himself,
but it will not be till after Easter, when he has
business in town.  You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope,
but this must not be a yearly visit.  I want you at home,
that I may have your opinion about Thornton Lacey.
I have little heart for extensive improvements till
I know that it will ever have a mistress.  I think I
shall certainly write.  It is quite settled that the
Grants go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday.
I am glad of it.  I am not comfortable enough to be fit
for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck
that such an article of Mansfield news should fall
to my pen instead of hers.--Yours ever, my dearest
Fanny."

"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a
letter again," was Fanny's secret declaration as she
finished this.  "What do they bring but disappointment
and sorrow?  Not till after Easter!  How shall I bear it?
And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!"

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as
she could, but she was within half a minute of starting
the idea that Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt
and to herself.  As for the main subject of the letter,
there was nothing in that to soothe irritation.  She was
almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund.
"There is no good in this delay," said she.  "Why is not
it settled?  He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes;
nothing can, after having had truths before him so long
in vain.  He will marry her, and be poor and miserable.
God grant that her influence do not make him cease
to be respectable!"  She looked over the letter again.
"'So very fond of me!' 'tis nonsense all.  She loves
nobody but herself and her brother.  Her friends leading
her astray for years!  She is quite as likely to have led
_them_ astray.  They have all, perhaps, been corrupting
one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than
she is of them, she is the less likely to have been hurt,
except by their flattery.  'The only woman in the world
whom he could ever think of as a wife.'  I firmly
believe it.  It is an attachment to govern his whole life.
Accepted or refused, his heart is wedded to her for ever.
'The loss of Mary I must consider as comprehending the loss
of Crawford and Fanny.'  Edmund, you do not know me.
The families would never be connected if you did not
connect them!  Oh! write, write.  Finish it at once.
Let there be an end of this suspense.  Fix, commit,
condemn yourself."

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to
resentment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies.
She was soon more softened and sorrowful.  His warm regard,
his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
touched her strongly.  He was only too good to everybody.
It was a letter, in short, which she would not but have had
for the world, and which could never be valued enough.
This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without
having much to say, which will include a large proportion
of the female world at least, must feel with Lady Bertram
that she was out of luck in having such a capital piece of
Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath,
occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it,
and will admit that it must have been very mortifying
to her to see it fall to the share of her thankless son,
and treated as concisely as possible at the end of a
long letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest
part of a page of her own.  For though Lady Bertram rather
shone in the epistolary line, having early in her marriage,
from the want of other employment, and the circumstance
of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament, got into the way
of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for
herself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style,
so that a very little matter was enough for her:  she could
not do entirely without any; she must have something
to write about, even to her niece; and being so soon
to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms
and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her
to be deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she could put
them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her.
Lady Bertram's hour of good luck came.  Within a few days
from the receipt of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from
her aunt, beginning thus--

"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some
very alarming intelligence, which I make no doubt will
give you much concern".

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen
to acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants'
intended journey, for the present intelligence was of a
nature to promise occupation for the pen for many days
to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her
eldest son, of which they had received notice by express
a few hours before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men
to Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a good deal
of drinking had brought on a fever; and when the party
broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself
at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of
sickness and solitude, and the attendance only of servants.
Instead of being soon well enough to follow his friends,
as he had then hoped, his disorder increased considerably,
and it was not long before he thought so ill of himself
as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter
despatched to Mansfield.

"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose,"
observed her ladyship, after giving the substance of it,
"has agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent
ourselves from being greatly alarmed and apprehensive
for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may
be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending
his brother immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir
Thomas will not leave me on this distressing occasion,
as it would be too trying for me.  We shall greatly miss
Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he
will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than
might be apprehended, and that he will be able to bring
him to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes
should be done, and thinks best on every account, and I
flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to bear
the removal without material inconvenience or injury.
As I have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny,
under these distressing circumstances, I will write again
very soon."

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably
more warm and genuine than her aunt's style of writing.
She felt truly for them all.  Tom dangerously ill,
Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small party
remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every
other care, or almost every other.  She could just find
selfishness enough to wonder whether Edmund _had_ written
to Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no sentiment
dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate and
disinterestedly anxious.  Her aunt did not neglect her:
she wrote again and again; they were receiving frequent
accounts from Edmund, and these accounts were as regularly
transmitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style,
and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears,
all following and producing each other at haphazard.
It was a sort of playing at being frightened.
The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not see had little
power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably
about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom
was actually conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had
beheld his altered appearance.  Then a letter which she
had been previously preparing for Fanny was finished
in a different style, in the language of real feeling
and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken.
"He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs;
and I am so shocked to see him, that I do not know
what to do.  I am sure he has been very ill.  Poor Tom!
I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened,
and so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you
were here to comfort me.  But Sir Thomas hopes he
will be better to-morrow, and says we must consider
his journey."

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom
was not soon over.  Tom's extreme impatience to be
removed to Mansfield, and experience those comforts
of home and family which had been little thought of in
uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being
conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on,
and for a week he was in a more alarming state than ever.
They were all very seriously frightened.  Lady Bertram
wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who might now be said
to live upon letters, and pass all her time between suffering
from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's.
Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin,
her tenderness of heart made her feel that she could
not spare him, and the purity of her principles added yet
a keener solicitude, when she considered how little useful,
how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on
more common occasions.  Susan was always ready to hear and
to sympathise.  Nobody else could be interested in so remote
an evil as illness in a family above an hundred miles off;
not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,
if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand,
and now and then the quiet observation of, "My poor
sister Bertram must be in a great deal of trouble."

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties
of blood were little more than nothing.  An attachment,
originally as tranquil as their tempers, was now become
a mere name.  Mrs. Price did quite as much for Lady
Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price.
Three or four Prices might have been swept away,
any or all except Fanny and William, and Lady Bertram
would have thought little about it; or perhaps might have
caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being
a very happy thing and a great blessing to their poor
dear sister Price to have them so well provided for.



CHAPTER XLV

At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield,
Tom's immediate danger was over, and he was so far
pronounced safe as to make his mother perfectly easy;
for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,
helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking
beyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarm
and no aptitude at a hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest
subject in the world for a little medical imposition.
The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;
of course he would soon be well again.  Lady Bertram could
think nothing less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security,
till she received a few lines from Edmund, written purposely
to give her a clearer idea of his brother's situation,
and acquaint her with the apprehensions which he and his
father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some
strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame
on the departure of the fever.  They judged it best
that Lady Bertram should not be harassed by alarms which,
it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded; but there was
no reason why Fanny should not know the truth.  They were
apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient
and the sickroom in a juster and stronger light than
all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper could do.  There was
hardly any one in the house who might not have described,
from personal observation, better than herself;
not one who was not more useful at times to her son.
She could do nothing but glide in quietly and look at him;
but when able to talk or be talked to, or read to,
Edmund was the companion he preferred.  His aunt worried
him by her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down
his conversation or his voice to the level of irritation
and feebleness.  Edmund was all in all.  Fanny would
certainly believe him so at least, and must find that her
estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared
as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother.
There was not only the debility of recent illness to assist:
there was also, as she now learnt, nerves much affected,
spirits much depressed to calm and raise, and her own
imagination added that there must be a mind to be
properly guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined
to hope than fear for her cousin, except when she thought
of Miss Crawford; but Miss Crawford gave her the idea
of being the child of good luck, and to her selfishness
and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was
not forgotten.  Edmund's letter had this postscript.
"On the subject of my last, I had actually begun a letter
when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed
my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends.
When Tom is better, I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued,
with scarcely any change, till Easter.  A line occasionally
added by Edmund to his mother's letter was enough for
Fanny's information.  Tom's amendment was alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most
sorrowfully considered, on first learning that she had
no chance of leaving Portsmouth till after it.  It came,
and she had yet heard nothing of her return--nothing even
of the going to London, which was to precede her return.
Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was
no notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended.
She supposed he could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel,
a terrible delay to her.  The end of April was coming on;
it would soon be almost three months, instead of two,
that she had been absent from them all, and that her days
had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved
them too well to hope they would thoroughly understand;
and who could yet say when there might be leisure to think
of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them,
were such as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium
for ever before her.  "With what intense desire she wants
her home," was continually on her tongue, as the truest
description of a yearning which she could not suppose
any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call
it her home, had been fond of saying that she was going home;
the word had been very dear to her, and so it still was,
but it must be applied to Mansfield.  _That_ was now
the home.  Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home.
They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of her
secret meditations, and nothing was more consolatory
to her than to find her aunt using the same language:
"I cannot but say I much regret your being from home
at this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits.
I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent
from home so long again," were most delightful sentences
to her.  Still, however, it was her private regale.
Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to betray
such a preference of her uncle's house.  It was always:
"When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return
to Mansfield, I shall do so and so."  For a great
while it was so, but at last the longing grew stronger,
it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what
she should do when she went home before she was aware.
She reproached herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards
her father and mother.  She need not have been uneasy.
There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her.
They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.
She was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring.
She had not known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose
in passing March and April in a town.  She had not known
before how much the beginnings and progress of vegetation
had delighted her.  What animation, both of body and mind,
she had derived from watching the advance of that season
which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely,
and seeing its increasing beauties from the earliest
flowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt's garden,
to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations,
and the glory of his woods.  To be losing such pleasures
was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in
the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement,
bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,
freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse:
but even these incitements to regret were feeble,
compared with what arose from the conviction of being
missed by her best friends, and the longing to be useful
to those who were wanting her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service
to every creature in the house.  She felt that she must
have been of use to all.  To all she must have saved some
trouble of head or hand; and were it only in supporting
the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the evil
of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless,
officious companion, too apt to be heightening danger
in order to enhance her own importance, her being there
would have been a general good.  She loved to fancy how she
could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked
to her, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing
of what was, and prepare her mind for what might be;
and how many walks up and down stairs she might have
saved her, and how many messages she might have carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied
with remaining in London at such a time, through an
illness which had now, under different degrees of danger,
lasted several weeks.  _They_ might return to Mansfield
when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to _them_,
and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.
If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations,
Julia was certainly able to quit London whenever she chose.
It appeared from one of her aunt's letters that Julia
had offered to return if wanted, but this was all.
It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London
very much at war with all respectable attachments.
She saw the proof of it in Miss Crawford, as well as in
her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been respectable,
the most respectable part of her character; her friendship
for herself had at least been blameless.  Where was
either sentiment now?  It was so long since Fanny had had
any letter from her, that she had some reason to think
lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt on.
It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford
or of her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield,
and she was beginning to suppose that she might never
know whether Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again
or not till they met, and might never hear from his
sister any more this spring, when the following letter
was received to revive old and create some new sensations--

"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my
long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly.
This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good,
that I depend upon being treated better than I deserve,
and I write now to beg an immediate answer.  I want to know
the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,
are perfectly able to give it.  One should be a brute not
to feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear,
poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery.
I thought little of his illness at first.  I looked
upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with,
and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder,
and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him;
but now it is confidently asserted that he is really
in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming,
and that part of the family, at least, are aware of it.
If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part,
that discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let
me know how far I have been rightly informed.  I need
not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been
any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess
I cannot help trembling.  To have such a fine young man
cut off in the flower of his days is most melancholy.
Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully.  I really am quite
agitated on the subject.  Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile
and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed
a physician in my life.  Poor young man!  If he is to die,
there will be _two_ poor young men less in the world;
and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one,
that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands
more deserving of them.  It was a foolish precipitation
last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted
out in part.  Varnish and gilding hide many stains.
It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name.
With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked.
Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety,
and do not trifle with it.  Tell me the real truth,
as you have it from the fountainhead.  And now, do not
trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or
your own.  Believe me, they are not only natural, they are
philanthropic and virtuous.  I put it to your conscience,
whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do more good with all
the Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.'
Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you,
but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth,
his sisters not being within my reach.  Mrs. R. has
been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham
(as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned;
and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square,
but I forget their name and street.  Could I immediately
apply to either, however, I should still prefer you,
because it strikes me that they have all along been so
unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut
their eyes to the truth.  I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter
holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they are
thorough holidays to her.  The Aylmers are pleasant people;
and her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment.
I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down
to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the
dowager agree in one house?  Henry is not at hand, so I
have nothing to say from him.  Do not you think Edmund would
have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?--
Yours ever, Mary."

"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in,
but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it.
Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning:
she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come.
Now do not make yourself uneasy with any queer fancies
because he has been spending a few days at Richmond.
He does it every spring.  Be assured he cares for nobody
but you.  At this very moment he is wild to see you,
and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so,
and for making his pleasure conduce to yours.  In proof,
he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth
about our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all
my soul.  Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come.
It will do us all good.  He and I can go to the Parsonage,
you know, and be no trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park.
It would really be gratifying to see them all again, and a
little addition of society might be of infinite use to them;
and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there,
that you cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--
keep away, when you have the means of returning.
I have not time or patience to give half Henry's messages;
be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one is
unalterable affection."

Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter,
with her extreme reluctance to bring the writer of it
and her cousin Edmund together, would have made her (as
she felt) incapable of judging impartially whether
the concluding offer might be accepted or not.
To herself, individually, it was most tempting.  To be
finding herself, perhaps within three days, transported
to Mansfield, was an image of the greatest felicity,
but it would have been a material drawback to be owing
such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct,
at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn:
the sister's feelings, the brother's conduct,
_her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless vanity.
To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps,
of Mrs. Rushworth!  She was mortified.  She had thought
better of him.  Happily, however, she was not left to weigh
and decide between opposite inclinations and doubtful
notions of right; there was no occasion to determine
whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not.
She had a rule to apply to, which settled everything.
Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty
with him, made it instantly plain to her what she
had to do.  She must absolutely decline the proposal.
If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer
an early return was a presumption which hardly anything
would have seemed to justify.  She thanked Miss Crawford,
but gave a decided negative.  "Her uncle, she understood,
meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had continued
so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,
she must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present,
and that she should be felt an encumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time
was exactly according to her own belief of it, and such
as she supposed would convey to the sanguine mind of her
correspondent the hope of everything she was wishing for.
Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,
under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected,
was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready
to congratulate himself upon.  She had only learnt to think
nothing of consequence but money.



CHAPTER XLVI

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying
a real disappointment, she was rather in expectation,
from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of being
urged again; and though no second letter arrived for the
space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it
did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its
containing little writing, and was persuaded of its
having the air of a letter of haste and business.
Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were
enough to start the probability of its being merely
to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth
that very day, and to throw her into all the agitation
of doubting what she ought to do in such a case.
If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties,
a third can disperse them; and before she had opened
the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's
having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission
was giving her ease.  This was the letter--

"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me,
and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the
least credit to it, should it spread into the country.
Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that a day or two
will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless,
and in spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of
nobody but you.  Say not a word of it; hear nothing,
surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again.
I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved
but Rushworth's folly.  If they are gone, I would lay
my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia
with them.  But why would not you let us come for you?
I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc."

Fanny stood aghast.  As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour
had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand
much of this strange letter.  She could only perceive
that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford,
and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just
occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world,
and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension,
if she heard it.  Miss Crawford need not be alarmed
for her.  She was only sorry for the parties concerned
and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far;
but she hoped it might not.  If the Rushworths were gone
themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from
what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything
unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should
make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge
of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable
of being steadily attached to any one woman in the world,
and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange!  She had begun to think he really
loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something
more than common; and his sister still said that he cared
for nobody else.  Yet there must have been some marked
display of attentions to her cousin, there must have
been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent
was not of a sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she
heard from Miss Crawford again.  It was impossible to
banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not
relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being.
Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth;
she might have trusted to her sense of what was due
to her cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter.
Fanny was disappointed.  She could still think of little
else all the morning; but, when her father came back
in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual,
she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such
a channel that the subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing.  The remembrance of her first
evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper,
came across her.  No candle was now wanted.
The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon.
She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there;
and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour,
instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy,
for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing
in a town and in the country.  Here, its power was only
a glare:  a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring
forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept.
There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town.
She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of
moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls,
marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched
by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never
thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks,
the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue,
and the bread and butter growing every minute more
greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it.
Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented
over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was
in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it;
and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her,
after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph:
"What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?"

A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."

"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all!
There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such
fine relations do you.  I don't know what Sir Thomas may
think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier
and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less.  But,
by G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end
as long as I could stand over her.  A little flogging for
man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things."

Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern
the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial
_fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street;
the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been
enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised
to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world,
having quitted her husband's roof in company with the
well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend
and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even
to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."

"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be
a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame;
she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair,
for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself.
It had been the shock of conviction as she read.  The truth
rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she
could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder
to herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her
much answer.  "It might be all a lie," he acknowledged;
"but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays
that way, that there was no answering for anybody."

"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively;
"it would be so very shocking!  If I have spoken once
to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at
least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey?  And it would
not be ten minutes' work."

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the
conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part
of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described.
At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment
was quickening her perception of the horrible evil.
She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope,
of the paragraph being false.  Miss Crawford's letter,
which she had read so often as to make every line her own,
was in frightful conformity with it.  Her eager defence
of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_,
her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something
very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,
who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude,
who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it
unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman!
Now she could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone,
or _said_ to be gone.  It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth;
it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before.
There was no possibility of rest.  The evening passed
without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless.
She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings
of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold.  The event
was so shocking, that there were moments even when her
heart revolted from it as impossible:  when she thought
it could not be.  A woman married only six months ago;
a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another;
that other her near relation; the whole family,
both families connected as they were by tie upon tie;
all friends, all intimate together!  It was too horrible
a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil,
for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism,
to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.
_His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity,
_Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principle
on either side, gave it possibility:  Miss Crawford's
letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence?  Whom would it not injure?
Whose views might it not affect?  Whose peace would it
not cut up for ever?  Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund;
but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground.
She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple,
indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure.
The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she paused.
Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause.
They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly.
Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour
and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper,
and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it
scarcely possible for them to support life and reason
under such disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far
as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing
to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be
instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken
her terrors.  Two posts came in, and brought no refutation,
public or private.  There was no second letter to explain
away the first from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligence
from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt.  This was an evil omen.
She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe
her mind, and was reduced to so low and wan and trembling
a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price
could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the
sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands.
It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund.

"Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness.
May God support you under your share!  We have been here
two days, but there is nothing to be done.  They cannot
be traced.  You may not have heard of the last blow--
Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates.
She left London a few hours before we entered it.
At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully.
Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation.
My father is not overpowered.  More cannot be hoped.
He is still able to think and act; and I write,
by his desire, to propose your returning home.
He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake.
I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this,
and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield.
My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a
few months.  Settle it as you like; say what is proper;
I am sure you will feel such an instance of his
kindness at such a moment!  Do justice to his meaning,
however I may confuse it.  You may imagine something
of my present state.  There is no end of the evil let
loose upon us.  You will see me early by the mail.--
Yours, etc."

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial.  Never had she felt
such a one as this letter contained.  To-morrow! to leave
Portsmouth to-morrow! She was, she felt she was, in the
greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so many
were miserable.  The evil which brought such good to her!
She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it.
To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as
a comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogether
such a combination of blessings as set her heart in
a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain,
and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress
even of those whose distress she thought of most.
Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but little;
she was amazed and shocked; but it could not occupy her,
could not dwell on her mind.  She was obliged to call
herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible
and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of all
the agitating pressing joyful cares attending this summons
to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment,
for relieving sorrow.  Employment, even melancholy,
may dispel melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful.
She had so much to do, that not even the horrible
story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last point
of certainty could affect her as it had done before.
She had not time to be miserable.  Within twenty-four
hours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mother
must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready.
Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough.
The happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little
alloyed by the black communication which must briefly
precede it--the joyful consent of her father and mother
to Susan's going with her--the general satisfaction with
which the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy
of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family.
Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes,
but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes,
because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them,
was much more in her thoughts:  and as for Susan,
now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart,
and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned,
or of those who were sorrowing--if she could help rejoicing
from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected
from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price,
or the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally
and duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for
the morrow.  The advantage of much sleep to prepare
them for their journey was impossible.  The cousin
who was travelling towards them could hardly have less
than visited their agitated spirits--one all happiness,
the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house.  The girls
heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down.
The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge
of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own
first feelings.  He so near her, and in misery.  She was
ready to sink as she entered the parlour.  He was alone,
and met her instantly; and she found herself pressed
to his heart with only these words, just articulate,
"My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!"
She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he
say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again,
though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed
the wish of self-command, and the resolution of avoiding
any farther allusion.  "Have you breakfasted?  When shall
you be ready?  Does Susan go?" were questions following
each other rapidly.  His great object was to be off
as soon as possible.  When Mansfield was considered,
time was precious; and the state of his own mind made
him find relief only in motion.  It was settled that he
should order the carriage to the door in half an hour.
Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite
ready in half an hour.  He had already ate, and declined
staying for their meal.  He would walk round the ramparts,
and join them with the carriage.  He was gone again;
glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under
violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress.
She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at
the same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with
the family, and be a witness--but that he saw nothing--
of the tranquil manner in which the daughters were
parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting
down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much
unusual activity, was quite and completely ready as
the carriage drove from the door.  Fanny's last meal
in her father's house was in character with her first:
she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she
passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face
wore its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived.
Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,
those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one.  Edmund's deep
sighs often reached Fanny.  Had he been alone with her,
his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution;
but Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and his
attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be
long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude,
and sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile,
which comforted her; but the first day's journey passed
without her hearing a word from him on the subjects
that were weighing him down.  The next morning produced
a little more.  Just before their setting out from Oxford,
while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observation
of the departure of a large family from the inn,
the other two were standing by the fire; and Edmund,
particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks,
and from his ignorance of the daily evils of her
father's house, attributing an undue share of the change,
attributing _all_ to the recent event, took her hand,
and said in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder--
you must feel it--you must suffer.  How a man who had
once loved, could desert you!  But _yours_--your regard
was new compared with----Fanny, think of _me_!"

The first division of their journey occupied a long day,
and brought them, almost knocked up, to Oxford;
but the second was over at a much earlier hour.
They were in the environs of Mansfield long before
the usual dinner-time, and as they approached the
beloved place, the hearts of both sisters sank a little.
Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts and Tom,
under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel with
some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately
acquired knowledge of what was practised here, was on
the point of being called into action.  Visions of good
and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities,
were before her; and she was meditating much upon
silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had
been everywhere awake to the difference of the country
since February; but when they entered the Park her
perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort.
It was three months, full three months, since her
quitting it, and the change was from winter to summer.
Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of the
freshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed,
were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known
to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given
to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination.
Her enjoyment, however, was for herself alone.  Edmund could
not share it.  She looked at him, but he was leaning back,
sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed,
as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the
lovely scenes of home must be shut out.

It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must
be enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy,
and well situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected
with such impatience as she had never known before.
Fanny had scarcely passed the solemn-looking servants,
when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room to meet her;
came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,
"Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable."



CHAPTER XLVII

It had been a miserable party, each of the three believing
themselves most miserable.  Mrs. Norris, however, as most
attached to Maria, was really the greatest sufferer.
Maria was her first favourite, the dearest of all;
the match had been her own contriving, as she had been
wont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this
conclusion of it almost overpowered her.

She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to
everything that passed.  The being left with her sister
and nephew, and all the house under her care, had been
an advantage entirely thrown away; she had been unable
to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself useful.
When really touched by affliction, her active powers
had been all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tom
had received from her the smallest support or attempt
at support.  She had done no more for them than they
had done for each other.  They had been all solitary,
helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of the
others only established her superiority in wretchedness.
Her companions were relieved, but there was no good
for _her_.  Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother
as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having
comfort from either, was but the more irritated by the
sight of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger,
she could have charged as the daemon of the piece.
Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.

Susan too was a grievance.  She had not spirits to notice
her in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt
her as a spy, and an intruder, and an indigent niece,
and everything most odious.  By her other aunt, Susan was
received with quiet kindness.  Lady Bertram could not
give her much time, or many words, but she felt her,
as Fanny's sister, to have a claim at Mansfield,
and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was more
than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing
but ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris;
and was so provided with happiness, so strong in that
best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils,
that she could have stood against a great deal more
indifference than she met with from the others.

She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted
with the house and grounds as she could, and spent her
days very happily in so doing, while those who might
otherwise have attended to her were shut up, or wholly
occupied each with the person quite dependent on them,
at this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying
to bury his own feelings in exertions for the relief
of his brother's, and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram,
returning to every former office with more than former zeal,
and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed
so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament,
was all Lady Bertram's consolation.  To be listened to and
borne with, and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy
in return, was everything that could be done for her.
To be otherwise comforted was out of the question.
The case admitted of no comfort.  Lady Bertram did not
think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought
justly on all important points; and she saw, therefore,
in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her,
to think little of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious.
After a time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct
her thoughts to other subjects, and revive some interest
in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady Bertram _was_
fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light,
as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had
yet transpired.  Her aunt was no very methodical narrator,
but with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas,
and what she already knew herself, and could reasonably
combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much
as she wished of the circumstances attending the story.

Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays,
to Twickenham, with a family whom she had just grown
intimate with:  a family of lively, agreeable manners,
and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to _their_
house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times.
His having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew.
Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass
a few days with his mother, and bring her back to town,
and Maria was with these friends without any restraint,
without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street
two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations
of Sir Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were
now disposed to attribute to some view of convenience
on Mr. Yates's account.  Very soon after the Rushworths'
return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a
letter from an old and most particular friend in London,
who hearing and witnessing a good deal to alarm him
in that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir Thomas's coming
to London himself, and using his influence with his
daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already
exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making
Mr. Rushworth uneasy.

Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without
communicating its contents to any creature at Mansfield,
when it was followed by another, sent express from the
same friend, to break to him the almost desperate situation
in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house:  Mr. Rushworth
had been in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding)
for his advice; Mr. Harding feared there had been _at_
_least_ very flagrant indiscretion.  The maidservant
of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly.  He was
doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope
of Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted
in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother,
that the worst consequences might be apprehended.

This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest
of the family.  Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him,
and the others had been left in a state of wretchedness,
inferior only to what followed the receipt of the next
letters from London.  Everything was by that time public
beyond a hope.  The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother,
had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress,
was not to be silenced.  The two ladies, even in the short
time they had been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness
of the elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise
almost as much from the personal disrespect with which
she had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son.

However that might be, she was unmanageable.  But had she
been less obstinate, or of less weight with her son,
who was always guided by the last speaker, by the person
who could get hold of and shut him up, the case would
still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not
appear again, and there was every reason to conclude
her to be concealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford,
who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a journey,
on the very day of her absenting herself.

Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town,
in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice,
though all was lost on the side of character.

_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of.
There was but one of his children who was not at this time
a source of misery to him.  Tom's complaints had been
greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct,
and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all
her alarms were regularly sent off to her husband;
and Julia's elopement, the additional blow which had met
him on his arrival in London, though its force had been
deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt.
She saw that it was.  His letters expressed how much he
deplored it.  Under any circumstances it would have been
an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinely
formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,
placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light,
and severely aggravated the folly of her choice.
He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner,
and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more
pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not
but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst
probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's.
Such was his opinion of the set into which she had
thrown herself.

Fanny felt for him most acutely.  He could have no comfort
but in Edmund.  Every other child must be racking his heart.
His displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoning
differently from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away.
_She_ should be justified.  Mr. Crawford would have
fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this,
though most material to herself, would be poor consolation
to Sir Thomas.  Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her;
but what could her justification or her gratitude and
attachment do for him?  His stay must be on Edmund alone.

She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave
his father no present pain.  It was of a much less poignant
nature than what the others excited; but Sir Thomas
was considering his happiness as very deeply involved
in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it,
as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing
with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success;
and who, in everything but this despicable brother,
would have been so eligible a connexion.  He was aware
of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf,
in addition to all the rest, when they were in town:
he had seen or conjectured his feelings; and, having reason
to think that one interview with Miss Crawford had taken place,
from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had been
as anxious on that account as on others to get him out of town,
and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt,
with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs.
Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings,
Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss Crawford's character.
Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he would
not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty
thousand pounds had been forty.

That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did
not admit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew
that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient.
She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it.
If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which
had sometimes been too much for her before, it would
be most consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be.
She seldom saw him:  never alone.  He probably avoided
being alone with her.  What was to be inferred?  That his
judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share
of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly
felt to be a subject of the slightest communication.
This must be his state.  He yielded, but it was with
agonies which did not admit of speech.  Long, long would
it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again,
or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential
intercourse as had been.

It _was_ long.  They reached Mansfield on Thursday,
and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmund began
to talk to her on the subject.  Sitting with her on
Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of
all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must
be opened, and everything told; no one else in the room,
except his mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon,
had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to speak;
and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced
as to what came first, and the usual declaration that
if she would listen to him for a few minutes, he should
be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness
in the same way again; she need not fear a repetition;
it would be a subject prohibited entirely:  he entered
upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations
of the first interest to himself, to one of whose
affectionate sympathy he was quite convinced.

How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern,
what pain and what delight, how the agitation of his
voice was watched, and how carefully her own eyes were
fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined.
The opening was alarming.  He had seen Miss Crawford.
He had been invited to see her.  He had received a note
from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call; and regarding
it as what was meant to be the last, last interview
of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings
of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought
to have known, he had gone to her in such a state of mind,
so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few moments
impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last.
But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over.
She had met him, he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--
even an agitated air; but before he had been able
to speak one intelligible sentence, she had introduced
the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him.
"'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you.
Let us talk over this sad business.  What can equal the folly
of our two relations?'  I could not answer, but I believe
my looks spoke.  She felt reproved.  Sometimes how quick
to feel!  With a graver look and voice she then added,
'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.'
So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit,
is hardly fit to be repeated to you.  I cannot recall
all her words.  I would not dwell upon them if I could.
Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.
She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on
by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must
lose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly of
poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging into
such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved
by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear.
Guess what I must have felt.  To hear the woman whom--
no harsher name than folly given!  So voluntarily,
so freely, so coolly to canvass it!  No reluctance,
no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings?
This is what the world does.  For where, Fanny, shall we
find a woman whom nature had so richly endowed?  Spoilt,
spoilt!"

After a little reflection, he went on with a sort
of desperate calmness.  "I will tell you everything,
and then have done for ever.  She saw it only as folly,
and that folly stamped only by exposure.  The want of
common discretion, of caution:  his going down to Richmond
for the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting
herself in the power of a servant; it was the detection,
in short--oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the offence,
which she reprobated.  It was the imprudence which had
brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother
to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her."

He stopt.  "And what," said Fanny (believing herself
required to speak), "what could you say?"

"Nothing, nothing to be understood.  I was like a man stunned.
She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began
to talk of you, regretting, as well she might, the loss
of such a--.  There she spoke very rationally.  But she
has always done justice to you.  'He has thrown away,'
said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again.
She would have fixed him; she would have made him happy
for ever.'  My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope,
more pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might
have been--but what never can be now.  You do not wish me
to be silent?  If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
have done."

No look or word was given.

"Thank God," said he.  "We were all disposed to wonder,
but it seems to have been the merciful appointment
of Providence that the heart which knew no guile
should not suffer.  She spoke of you with high praise
and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy,
a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim,
'Why would not she have him?  It is all her fault.
Simple girl!  I shall never forgive her.  Had she accepted
him as she ought, they might now have been on the point
of marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and too
busy to want any other object.  He would have taken
no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.
It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation,
in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.'  Could you
have believed it possible?  But the charm is broken.
My eyes are opened."

"Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel.  At such a moment to
give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you!
Absolute cruelty."

"Cruelty, do you call it?  We differ there.  No, hers is
not a cruel nature.  I do not consider her as meaning
to wound my feelings.  The evil lies yet deeper:
in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being
such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it
natural to her to treat the subject as she did.  She was
speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak,
as she imagined everybody else would speak.  Hers are
not faults of temper.  She would not voluntarily give
unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself,
I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would--
Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacy
and a corrupted, vitiated mind.  Perhaps it is best for me,
since it leaves me so little to regret.  Not so, however.
Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of
losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do.
I told her so."

"Did you?"

"Yes; when I left her I told her so."

"How long were you together?"

"Five-and-twenty minutes.  Well, she went on to say that
what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage
between them.  She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier
voice than I can."  He was obliged to pause more than once
as he continued.  "'We must persuade Henry to marry her,'
said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of having
shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair
of it.  Fanny he must give up.  I do not think that even
_he_ could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp,
and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty.
My influence, which is not small shall all go that way;
and when once married, and properly supported by her
own family, people of respectability as they are, she may
recover her footing in society to a certain degree.
In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,
but with good dinners, and large parties, there will
always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance;
and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candour
on those points than formerly.  What I advise is,
that your father be quiet.  Do not let him injure his own
cause by interference.  Persuade him to let things take
their course.  If by any officious exertions of his,
she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be
much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him.  I know how he is likely to be influenced.
Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it
may all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will
be destroying the chief hold.'"

After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny,
watching him with silent, but most tender concern,
was almost sorry that the subject had been entered
on at all.  It was long before he could speak again.
At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon have done.
I have told you the substance of all that she said.
As soon as I could speak, I replied that I had not
supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind
into that house as I had done, that anything could
occur to make me suffer more, but that she had been
inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence.
That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,
been often sensible of some difference in our opinions,
on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my
imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she
had now proved it.  That the manner in which she treated
the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister
(with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),
but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself,
giving it every reproach but the right; considering its ill
consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne
by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; and last
of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,
a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin,
on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought
of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought;
all this together most grievously convinced me that I had
never understood her before, and that, as far as related
to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination,
not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on
for many months past.  That, perhaps, it was best for me;
I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings,
hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now.
And yet, that I must and would confess that, could I
have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,
I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain
of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of
tenderness and esteem.  This is what I said, the purport
of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly
or methodically as I have repeated it to you.  She was
astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished.
I saw her change countenance.  She turned extremely red.
I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings:  a great,
though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths,
half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it.
She would have laughed if she could.  It was a sort of laugh,
as she answered, 'A pretty good lecture, upon my word.
Was it part of your last sermon?  At this rate you will
soon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey;
and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacher
in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary
into foreign parts.'  She tried to speak carelessly,
but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear.
I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well,
and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think
more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we
could any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of
our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediately
left the room.  I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I
heard the door open behind me.  'Mr. Bertram,' said she.
I looked back.  'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile;
but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that
had passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite
in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me.
I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist,
and still walked on.  I have since, sometimes, for a moment,
regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right,
and such has been the end of our acquaintance.  And what
an acquaintance has it been!  How have I been deceived!
Equally in brother and sister deceived!  I thank you for
your patience, Fanny.  This has been the greatest relief,
and now we will have done."

And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for five
minutes she thought they _had_ done.  Then, however, it all
came on again, or something very like it, and nothing
less than Lady Bertram's rousing thoroughly up could
really close such a conversation.  Till that happened,
they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she
had attached him, and how delightful nature had made her,
and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen into
good hands earlier.  Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly,
felt more than justified in adding to his knowledge
of her real character, by some hint of what share his
brother's state of health might be supposed to have in
her wish for a complete reconciliation.  This was not an
agreeable intimation.  Nature resisted it for a while.
It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to have had
her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity
was not of a strength to fight long against reason.
He submitted to believe that Tom's illness had influenced her,
only reserving for himself this consoling thought,
that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits,
she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could
have been expected, and for his sake been more near
doing right.  Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were
also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect,
the indelible impression, which such a disappointment
must make on his mind.  Time would undoubtedly abate
somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort
of thing which he never could get entirely the better of;
and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could--
it was too impossible to be named but with indignation.
Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.



CHAPTER XLVIII

Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.  I quit such odious
subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody,
not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort,
and to have done with all the rest.

My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction
of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything.
She must have been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt,
or thought she felt, for the distress of those around her.
She had sources of delight that must force their way.
She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful,
she was beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford;
and when Sir Thomas came back she had every proof that
could be given in his then melancholy state of spirits,
of his perfect approbation and increased regard;
and happy as all this must make her, she would still have
been happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer
the dupe of Miss Crawford.

It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself.
He was suffering from disappointment and regret,
grieving over what was, and wishing for what could never be.
She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with a
sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease,
and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation,
that there are few who might not have been glad to exchange
their greatest gaiety for it.

Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors
in his own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer.
He felt that he ought not to have allowed the marriage;
that his daughter's sentiments had been sufficiently known
to him to render him culpable in authorising it; that in so
doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and been
governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom.
These were reflections that required some time to soften;
but time will do almost everything; and though little
comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for the misery she
had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than he had
supposed in his other children.  Julia's match became a less
desperate business than he had considered it at first.
She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates,
desirous of being really received into the family, was disposed
to look up to him and be guided.  He was not very solid;
but there was a hope of his becoming less trifling,
of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet;
and at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate
rather more, and his debts much less, than he had feared,
and in being consulted and treated as the friend best
worth attending to.  There was comfort also in Tom,
who gradually regained his health, without regaining the
thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habits.
He was the better for ever for his illness.  He had suffered,
and he had learned to think:  two advantages that he had
never known before; and the self-reproach arising from
the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt
himself accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his
unjustifiable theatre, made an impression on his mind which,
at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense
or good companions, was durable in its happy effects.
He became what he ought to be:  useful to his father,
steady and quiet, and not living merely for himself.

Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir
Thomas could place dependence on such sources of good,
Edmund was contributing to his father's ease by improvement
in the only point in which he had given him pain before--
improvement in his spirits.  After wandering about and
sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings,
he had so well talked his mind into submission as to be
very tolerably cheerful again.

These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually
brought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense
of what was lost, and in part reconciling him to himself;
though the anguish arising from the conviction of his
own errors in the education of his daughters was never
to be entirely done away.

Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character
of any young people must be the totally opposite treatment
which Maria and Julia had been always experiencing at home,
where the excessive indulgence and flattery of their aunt
had been continually contrasted with his own severity.
He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract
what was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself;
clearly saw that he had but increased the evil by teaching
them to repress their spirits in his presence so as to make
their real disposition unknown to him, and sending them
for all their indulgences to a person who had been able
to attach them only by the blindness of her affection,
and the excess of her praise.

Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was,
he gradually grew to feel that it had not been the most
direful mistake in his plan of education.  Something must
have been wanting _within_, or time would have worn
away much of its ill effect.  He feared that principle,
active principle, had been wanting; that they had never
been properly taught to govern their inclinations and
tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice.
They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,
but never required to bring it into daily practice.
To be distinguished for elegance and accomplishments,
the authorised object of their youth, could have had no
useful influence that way, no moral effect on the mind.
He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed
to the understanding and manners, not the disposition;
and of the necessity of self-denial and humility,
he feared they had never heard from any lips that could
profit them.

Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he
could scarcely comprehend to have been possible.
Wretchedly did he feel, that with all the cost and care
of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought up
his daughters without their understanding their first duties,
or his being acquainted with their character and temper.

The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth,
especially, were made known to him only in their sad result.
She was not to be prevailed on to leave Mr. Crawford.
She hoped to marry him, and they continued together
till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope
was vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness
arising from the conviction rendered her temper so bad,
and her feelings for him so like hatred, as to make them
for a while each other's punishment, and then induce
a voluntary separation.

She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin
of all his happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better
consolation in leaving him than that she _had_ divided them.
What can exceed the misery of such a mind in such a situation?

Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce;
and so ended a marriage contracted under such circumstances
as to make any better end the effect of good luck not to
be reckoned on.  She had despised him, and loved another;
and he had been very much aware that it was so.
The indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments
of selfish passion, can excite little pity.  His punishment
followed his conduct, as did a deeper punishment the
deeper guilt of his wife.  _He_ was released from the
engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other
pretty girl could attract him into matrimony again,
and he might set forward on a second, and, it is to
be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state:  if duped,
to be duped at least with good humour and good luck;
while she must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings
to a retirement and reproach which could allow no second
spring of hope or character.

Where she could be placed became a subject of most
melancholy and momentous consultation.  Mrs. Norris,
whose attachment seemed to augment with the demerits
of her niece, would have had her received at home and
countenanced by them all.  Sir Thomas would not hear of it;
and Mrs. Norris's anger against Fanny was so much the greater,
from considering _her_ residence there as the motive.
She persisted in placing his scruples to _her_ account,
though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her that,
had there been no young woman in question, had there
been no young person of either sex belonging to him,
to be endangered by the society or hurt by the character
of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered so great an
insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.
As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be
protected by him, and secured in every comfort, and supported
by every encouragement to do right, which their relative
situations admitted; but farther than _that_ he could not go.
Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would not,
by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored,
by affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen
its disgrace, be anywise accessory to introducing such
misery in another man's family as he had known himself.

It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit Mansfield
and devote herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an
establishment being formed for them in another country,
remote and private, where, shut up together with little society,
on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,
it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became
their mutual punishment.

Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary
comfort of Sir Thomas's life.  His opinion of her had
been sinking from the day of his return from Antigua:
in every transaction together from that period, in their
daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had been
regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing
him that either time had done her much disservice,
or that he had considerably over-rated her sense,
and wonderfully borne with her manners before.  He had
felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse,
as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life;
she seemed a part of himself that must be borne for ever.
To be relieved from her, therefore, was so great a
felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances
behind her, there might have been danger of his learning
almost to approve the evil which produced such a good.

She was regretted by no one at Mansfield.  She had never
been able to attach even those she loved best; and since
Mrs. Rushworth's elopement, her temper had been in a state
of such irritation as to make her everywhere tormenting.
Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not even when
she was gone for ever.

That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure,
to a favourable difference of disposition and circumstance,
but in a greater to her having been less the darling
of that very aunt, less flattered and less spoilt.
Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second place.
She had been always used to think herself a little inferior
to Maria.  Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two;
her feelings, though quick, were more controllable,
and education had not given her so very hurtful a degree
of self-consequence.

She had submitted the best to the disappointment
in Henry Crawford.  After the first bitterness of the
conviction of being slighted was over, she had been
tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;
and when the acquaintance was renewed in town,
and Mr. Rushworth's house became Crawford's object,
she had had the merit of withdrawing herself from it,
and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,
in order to secure herself from being again too much attracted.
This had been her motive in going to her cousin's.
Mr. Yates's convenience had had nothing to do with it.
She had been allowing his attentions some time,
but with very little idea of ever accepting him;
and had not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did,
and her increased dread of her father and of home,
on that event, imagining its certain consequence to herself
would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily
resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks,
it is probable that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded.
She had not eloped with any worse feelings than those
of selfish alarm.  It had appeared to her the only
thing to be done.  Maria's guilt had induced Julia's folly.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad
domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded
vanity a little too long.  Once it had, by an opening
undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of happiness.
Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one
amiable woman's affections, could he have found sufficient
exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself
into the esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would
have been every probability of success and felicity for him.
His affection had already done something.  Her influence
over him had already given him some influence over her.
Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt
that more would have been obtained, especially when
that marriage had taken place, which would have given
him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her
first inclination, and brought them very often together.
Would he have persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have
been his reward, and a reward very voluntarily bestowed,
within a reasonable period from Edmund's marrying Mary.

Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought,
by going down to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth,
he might have been deciding his own happy destiny.
But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser's party;
his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he
was to meet Mrs. Rushworth there.  Curiosity and vanity
were both engaged, and the temptation of immediate pleasure
was too strong for a mind unused to make any sacrifice
to right:  he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,
resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it,
or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid.  He saw
Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with a coldness which
ought to have been repulsive, and have established apparent
indifference between them for ever; but he was mortified,
he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose
smiles had been so wholly at his command:  he must exert
himself to subdue so proud a display of resentment; it was
anger on Fanny's account; he must get the better of it,
and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her treatment
of himself.

In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated
perseverance had soon re-established the sort of familiar
intercourse, of gallantry, of flirtation, which bounded
his views; but in triumphing over the discretion which,
though beginning in anger, might have saved them both,
he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side
more strong than he had supposed.  She loved him;
there was no withdrawing attentions avowedly dear to her.
He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little
excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest
inconstancy of mind towards her cousin.  To keep Fanny
and the Bertrams from a knowledge of what was passing
became his first object.  Secrecy could not have been
more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than he
felt it for his own.  When he returned from Richmond,
he would have been glad to see Mrs. Rushworth no more.
All that followed was the result of her imprudence;
and he went off with her at last, because he could
not help it, regretting Fanny even at the moment,
but regretting her infinitely more when all the bustle of
the intrigue was over, and a very few months had taught him,
by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value
on the sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind,
and the excellence of her principles.

That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace,
should in a just measure attend _his_ share of the offence is,
we know, not one of the barriers which society gives
to virtue.  In this world the penalty is less equal than
could be wished; but without presuming to look forward
to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider
a man of sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing
for himself no small portion of vexation and regret:
vexation that must rise sometimes to self-reproach, and
regret to wretchedness, in having so requited hospitality,
so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most estimable,
and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom
he had rationally as well as passionately loved.

After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families,
the continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such
close neighbourhood would have been most distressing;
but the absence of the latter, for some months purposely
lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity,
or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal.
Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost
ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster,
which, as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield,
an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of
income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly
acceptable to those who went and those who staid.

Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have
gone with some regret from the scenes and people she
had been used to; but the same happiness of disposition
must in any place, and any society, secure her a great
deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary;
and Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity,
ambition, love, and disappointment in the course of the
last half-year, to be in need of the true kindness of her
sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity of her ways.
They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought
on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary
dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary,
though perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself
to a younger brother again, was long in finding among
the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents,
who were at the command of her beauty, and her 20,000,
any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired
at Mansfield, whose character and manners could authorise
a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned
to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.

Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect.
He had not to wait and wish with vacant affections for an
object worthy to succeed her in them.  Scarcely had he
done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to Fanny
how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such
another woman, before it began to strike him whether
a very different kind of woman might not do just as well,
or a great deal better:  whether Fanny herself were not
growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles
and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been;
and whether it might not be a possible, an hopeful
undertaking to persuade her that her warm and sisterly
regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion,
that every one may be at liberty to fix their own,
aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the
transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as
to time in different people.  I only entreat everybody
to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite
natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier,
Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became
as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been,
a regard founded on the most endearing claims of innocence
and helplessness, and completed by every recommendation
of growing worth, what could be more natural than
the change?  Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he
had been doing ever since her being ten years old,
her mind in so great a degree formed by his care,
and her comfort depending on his kindness, an object to him
of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his
own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield,
what was there now to add, but that he should learn
to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones.
And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,
and his feelings exactly in that favourable state
which a recent disappointment gives, those soft light
eyes could not be very long in obtaining the pre-eminence.

Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on
this road to happiness, there was nothing on the side
of prudence to stop him or make his progress slow;
no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of taste,
no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity
of temper.  Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits
wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on the present,
no reliance on future improvement.  Even in the midst
of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's
mental superiority.  What must be his sense of it now,
therefore?  She was of course only too good for him;
but as nobody minds having what is too good for them,
he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing,
and it was not possible that encouragement from her should
be long wanting.  Timid, anxious, doubting as she was,
it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers
should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success,
though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole
delightful and astonishing truth.  His happiness in knowing
himself to have been so long the beloved of such a heart,
must have been great enough to warrant any strength of
language in which he could clothe it to her or to himself;
it must have been a delightful happiness.  But there
was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach.
Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman
on receiving the assurance of that affection of which
she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no
difficulties behind, no drawback of poverty or parent.
It was a match which Sir Thomas's wishes had even forestalled.
Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions, prizing more
and more the sterling good of principle and temper,
and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities
all that remained to him of domestic felicity, he had
pondered with genuine satisfaction on the more than
possibility of the two young friends finding their natural
consolation in each other for all that had occurred
of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent
which met Edmund's application, the high sense of having
realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny
for a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his
early opinion on the subject when the poor little girl's
coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever
producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,
for their own instruction, and their neighbours' entertainment.

Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted.  His charitable
kindness had been rearing a prime comfort for himself.
His liberality had a rich repayment, and the general
goodness of his intentions by her deserved it.  He might
have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error
of judgment only which had given him the appearance
of harshness, and deprived him of her early love;
and now, on really knowing each other, their mutual
attachment became very strong.  After settling her at
Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort,
the object of almost every day was to see her there,
or to get her away from it.

Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram,
she could not be parted with willingly by _her_.
No happiness of son or niece could make her wish
the marriage.  But it was possible to part with her,
because Susan remained to supply her place.
Susan became the stationary niece, delighted to be so;
and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of mind,
and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been
by sweetness of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude.
Susan could never be spared.  First as a comfort to Fanny,
then as an auxiliary, and last as her substitute,
she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance
of equal permanency.  Her more fearless disposition
and happier nerves made everything easy to her there.
With quickness in understanding the tempers of those she
had to deal with, and no natural timidity to restrain
any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful
to all; and after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally
to her influence over the hourly comfort of her aunt,
as gradually to become, perhaps, the most beloved of the two.
In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's
continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general
well-doing and success of the other members of the family,
all assisting to advance each other, and doing credit
to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated,
and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he had
done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early
hardship and discipline, and the consciousness of being born
to struggle and endure.

With so much true merit and true love, and no want of
fortune and friends, the happiness of the married cousins
must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be.
Equally formed for domestic life, and attached to
country pleasures, their home was the home of affection
and comfort; and to complete the picture of good,
the acquisition of Mansfield living, by the death of
Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been married long
enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel
their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.

On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage
there, which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had
never been able to approach but with some painful sensation
of restraint or alarm, soon grew as dear to her heart,
and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as everything else
within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long been.

<THE END>


ADVERTISEMENT BY THE AUTHORESS, TO NORTHANGER ABBEY

THIS little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for
immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even
advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author
has never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it
worth-while to purchase what he did not think it worth-while to publish
seems extraordinary. But with this, neither the author nor the public
have any other concern than as some observation is necessary upon those
parts of the work which thirteen years have made comparatively obsolete.
The public are entreated to bear in mind that thirteen years have passed
since it was finished, many more since it was begun, and that during
that period, places, manners, books, and opinions have undergone
considerable changes.



CHAPTER 1


No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have
supposed her born to be an 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 anybody might
expect, she still lived on--lived to have six children more--to see them
growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent health herself. A family
of ten children will be always called a fine family, where there are
heads and arms and legs enough for the number; but the Morlands had
little other right to the word, for they were in general very plain, and
Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any. She had a thin
awkward figure, a sallow skin without colour, dark lank hair, and strong
features--so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism
seemed her mind. She was fond of all boy's plays, and greatly preferred
cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more heroic enjoyments of
infancy, nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or watering a
rose-bush. Indeed she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered
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 anything
before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for she was often
inattentive, and occasionally stupid. Her mother was three months in
teaching her only to repeat the "Beggar's Petition"; and after all, her
next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine
was always stupid--by no means; she learnt the fable of "The Hare and
Many Friends" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wished her
to learn music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for she was
very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn spinnet; so, at eight
years old she began. She learnt a year, and could not bear it; and Mrs.
Morland, who did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in
spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off. The day which
dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of Catherine's life.
Her taste for drawing was not superior; though whenever she could obtain
the outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon any other odd
piece of paper, she did what she could in that way, by drawing houses
and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another. Writing
and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother: her
proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons in
both whenever she could. What a strange, unaccountable character!--for
with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she had neither
a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever
quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones, with few interruptions
of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and
cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the
green slope at the back of the house.

Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances 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 today," were words which caught her ears now
and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost pretty is an
acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain the
first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever
receive.

Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything 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, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about
the country at the age of fourteen, to books--or at least books of
information--for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.

From Pope, she learnt to censure those who

   "bear about the mockery of woe."


From Gray, that

   "Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
   "And waste its fragrance on the desert air."


From Thompson, that--

   "It is a delightful task
   "To teach the young idea how to shoot."


And from Shakespeare she gained a great store of information--amongst
the rest, that--

   "Trifles light as air,
   "Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong,
   "As proofs of Holy Writ."


That

   "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 performance with very
little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil--she had no
notion of drawing--not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's
profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell
miserably short of the true heroic height. At present she did not know
her own poverty, for she had no lover to 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 perverseness of forty
surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen
to throw a hero in her way.

Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morlands lived, was ordered to Bath
for the benefit of a gouty constitution--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 2


In addition to what has been already said of Catherine Morland's
personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the
difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be
stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following
pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is
meant to be, that her heart was affectionate; her disposition cheerful
and open, without conceit or affectation of any kind--her manners just
removed from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing,
and, when in good looks, pretty--and her mind about as ignorant and
uninformed as the female mind at seventeen usually is.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand
alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Catherine from this
terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her
in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of
the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her
wise lips in their parting conference in her closet. Cautions against
the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young
ladies away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve
the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so? But Mrs. Morland knew
so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their
general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her
daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the
following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself up
very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and
I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will
give you this little book on purpose."

Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will
reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?),
must from situation be at this time the intimate friend and confidante
of her sister. It is remarkable, however, that she neither insisted
on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted her promise of
transmitting the character of every new acquaintance, nor a detail
of every interesting conversation that Bath might produce. Everything
indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the
Morlands, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed
rather consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the
refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation
of a heroine from her family ought always to excite. Her father, instead
of giving her an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an
hundred pounds bank-bill into her hands, gave her only ten guineas, and
promised her more when she wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the
journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful
safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky
overturn to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more alarming occurred
than a fear, on Mrs. Allen's side, of having once left her clogs behind
her at an inn, and that fortunately proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Catherine was all eager delight--her eyes were
here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking
environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted
them to the hotel. She was come to be happy, and she felt happy already.

They were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Allen, that the
reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter
tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will,
probably, contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate
wretchedness of which a last volume is capable--whether by her
imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy--whether by intercepting her letters,
ruining her character, or turning her out of doors.

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can
raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world
who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty,
genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a 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 everywhere
and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress was
her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our
heroine's entree into life could not take place till after three or four
days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and her chaperone
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 ballroom
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 comfort of
her protegee, Mrs. Allen made her way through the throng of men by
the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Catherine,
however, kept close at her side, and linked her arm too firmly within
her friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling
assembly. But to her utter amazement she found that to proceed along the
room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it
seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas she had imagined that
when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be
able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from
being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the
top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing
of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies. Still they
moved on--something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion
of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage
behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than
below; and hence Miss Morland had a comprehensive view of all the
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. Everybody was shortly in motion for
tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Catherine began to feel
something of disappointment--she was tired of being continually pressed
against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to
interest, and with all of whom she was so wholly unacquainted that she
could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a
syllable with any of her fellow captives; and when at last arrived in
the tea-room, she felt yet more the 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 anything to do
there, or anybody 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 anything I like so well in the whole room, I
assure you."

"How uncomfortable it is," whispered Catherine, "not to have a single
acquaintance here!"

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with perfect serenity, "it is very
uncomfortable indeed."

"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if
they wondered why we came here--we seem forcing ourselves into their
party."

"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large
acquaintance here."

"I wish we had any--it would be somebody to go to."

"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly.
The Skinners were here last year--I wish they were here now."

"Had not we better go away as it is? Here are no tea-things for us, you
see."

"No more there are, indeed. How very provoking! But I think we had
better sit still, for one gets so tumbled in such a crowd! How is my
head, my dear? Somebody gave me a push that has hurt it, I am afraid."

"No, indeed, it looks very nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure
there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you
must know somebody."

"I don't, upon my word--I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance
here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be
so glad to have you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What an
odd gown she has got on! How old-fashioned it is! Look at the back."

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their
neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light
conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time
that anybody 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. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding
her, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was she once
called a divinity by anybody. Yet Catherine was in very good looks, and
had the company only seen her three years before, they would now have
thought her exceedingly handsome.

She was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in her own
hearing, two gentlemen pronounced her to be a pretty girl. Such words
had their due effect; she immediately thought the evening pleasanter
than she had found it before--her humble vanity was contented--she
felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a
true-quality heroine would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration
of her charms, and went to her chair in good humour with everybody, and
perfectly satisfied with her share of public attention.




CHAPTER 3


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
everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance
in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Allen, and she repeated it after
every fresh proof, which every morning brought, of her knowing nobody at
all.

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more
favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies introduced to
her a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner; his name was Tilney.
He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather tall, had a
pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not
quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Catherine
felt herself in high luck. There was little leisure for speaking
while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, she found him as
agreeable as she had already given him credit for being. He talked with
fluency and spirit--and there was an archness and pleasantry in his
manner which interested, though it was hardly 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."

"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.

"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 tomorrow."

"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 distressed
me by his nonsense."

"Indeed I shall say no such thing."

"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?"

"If you please."

"I danced with a very agreeable young man, introduced 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 tenour 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 journaling which
largely contributes to form the easy style of writing for which ladies
are so generally celebrated. Everybody 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 gentlemen! That is--I should not
think the superiority was always on our side."

"As far as I have had opportunity of judging, it appears to me that the
usual style of letter-writing among women is faultless, except in three
particulars."

"And what are they?"

"A general deficiency of subject, a total inattention to stops, and a
very frequent ignorance of grammar."

"Upon my word! I need not have been afraid of disclaiming 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."

They were interrupted by Mrs. Allen: "My dear Catherine," said she, "do
take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already;
I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though
it cost but nine shillings a yard."

"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam," said Mr. Tilney,
looking at the muslin.

"Do you understand muslins, sir?"

"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an
excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a
gown. I bought one for her the other day, and it was pronounced to be a
prodigious bargain by every lady who saw it. I gave but five shillings a
yard for it, and a true Indian muslin."

Mrs. Allen was quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little
notice of those things," said she; "I can never get Mr. Allen to know
one of my gowns from another. You must be a great comfort to your
sister, sir."

"I hope I am, madam."

"And pray, sir, what do you think of Miss Morland's gown?"

"It is very pretty, madam," said he, gravely examining it; "but I do not
think it will wash well; I am afraid it will fray."

"How can you," said Catherine, laughing, "be so--" She had almost said
"strange."

"I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen; "and so I told
Miss Morland when she bought it."

"But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other;
Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or
a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister
say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than
she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces."

"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We
are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in
Salisbury, but it is so far to go--eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen
says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than
eight; and it is such a fag--I come back tired to death. Now, here one
can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes."

Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and
she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced.
Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged
himself a little too much with the foibles of others. "What are you
thinking of so earnestly?" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom;
"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 anything."

"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once
that you will not tell me."

"Well then, I will not."

"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to
tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world
advances intimacy so much."

They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the
lady's side at least, with a strong 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 inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the
evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured
of Mr. Tilney's being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in
Gloucestershire.




CHAPTER 4


With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the
next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the
morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile
was demanded--Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath,
except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the
fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and
out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody
wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath
is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after
parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if
we had any acquaintance here."

This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no
particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now;
but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied
diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which
she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its
just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of
about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her
attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance
in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time
since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"
This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers
to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of
a 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 observing how time had slipped away
since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in
Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to
make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and
cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive
information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs.
Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen,
in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her
sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different
situations and views--that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant
Taylors', and William at sea--and all of them more beloved and respected
in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs.
Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press
on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to
sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling
herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that
the lace on Mrs. Thorpe's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on
her own.

"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three
smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My
dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted
to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young
woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is
the handsomest."

The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a
short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike
them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest
young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother
Miss Morland is!"

"The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother--and "I should have
known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated 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 his own college, of
the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas
vacation with his family, near London.

The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss
Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being
considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers,
etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the
pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity,
she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and
take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this
extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while
she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for
the pangs of disappointed love.

Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free
discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy
between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and
quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland,
and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in
discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those
of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify
the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire;
could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only
smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a
crowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they
were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might
have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss
Thorpe's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this
acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left
nothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be
satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when
they all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss
Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should
there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after
learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across
the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next
morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe's
progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the
graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and
dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had
procured her such a friend.

Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a
good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her
eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by
pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and
dressing in the same style, did very well.

This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity
of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past
adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy
the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of
lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had
passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated.




CHAPTER 5


Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in
returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly
claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye
for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could reach; but she looked in
vain. Mr. Tilney was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. She hoped
to be more fortunate the next day; and when her wishes for fine weather
were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, she hardly felt a doubt of
it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants,
and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell
their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

As soon as divine service was over, the Thorpes and Allens eagerly
joined each other; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to
discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not
a genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday
throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe
the fresh air of better company. Here Catherine and Isabella, arm
in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved
conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again
was Catherine disappointed in her hope of reseeing her partner. He was
nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful,
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 his person
and manners, and increased her anxiety to know more of him. From the
Thorpes she could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath
before they met with Mrs. Allen. It was a subject, however, in which
she often indulged with her fair friend, from whom she received every
possible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression
on her fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken. Isabella was very
sure that he must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he
must have been delighted with her dear Catherine, and would therefore
shortly return. She liked him the better for being a clergyman, "for she
must confess herself very partial to the profession"; and 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 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 conversation, but in which there was
scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of
subject, for Mrs. Thorpe talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Allen
of her gowns.

The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they 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 ungenerous 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 permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she
accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages
with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the
heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I
cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such
effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in
threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us
not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions
have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any
other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has
been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes
are almost as many as our readers. And while the abilities of the
nine-hundredth abridger of the History of England, or of the man who
collects and publishes in a volume some dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and
Prior, with a paper from the Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne,
are eulogized by a thousand pens--there seems almost a general wish of
decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and
of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to
recommend them. "I am no 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 momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or
Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest
powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge
of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the
liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the
best-chosen language. Now, had the same young lady been engaged with a
volume of the Spectator, instead of such a work, how proudly would she
have 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 anyone living; and their language,
too, frequently so coarse as to give no very favourable idea of the age
that could endure it.




CHAPTER 6


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, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which
marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five
minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest
creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at
least this age!"

"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in
very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?"

"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour.
But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy
ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place,
I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off;
it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do
you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in
Milsom Street just now--very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons
instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what
have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on
with Udolpho?"

"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the
black veil."

"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is
behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?"

"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me--I would not be
told upon any account. I know it must 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 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 pocketbook.
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 attachments 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 anybody 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, 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 everybody'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 anybody else. Everything 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 again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure
you would be miserable if you thought so!"

"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very
much pleased with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel as if
nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear
Isabella, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it."

"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read Udolpho before; but
I suppose Mrs. Morland objects to novels."

"No, she does not. She very often reads Sir Charles Grandison herself;
but new books do not fall in our way."

"Sir Charles Grandison! That is an amazing horrid book, 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
tonight? I am determined at all events to be dressed exactly like you.
The men take notice of that sometimes, you know."

"But it does not signify if they do," said Catherine, very innocently.

"Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say.
They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with
spirit, and make them keep their distance."

"Are they? 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--and not very dark."

"Very well, Catherine. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your
description of Mr. Tilney--'a brown skin, with dark eyes, and rather
dark hair.' Well, my taste is different. I prefer light eyes, and as to
complexion--do you know--I like a sallow better than any other. You must
not betray me, if you should ever meet with one of your acquaintance
answering that description."

"Betray you! 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 reverting to what interested her
at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's
skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, "For heaven's sake!
Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two
odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really
put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals.
They will hardly follow us there."

Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it
was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming
young men.

"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so
impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am
determined I will not look up."

In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her
that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the
pump-room.

"And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round.
"One was a very good-looking young man."

"They went towards the church-yard."

"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you
to going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You
said you should like to see it."

Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "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 immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit
of the two young men.




CHAPTER 7


Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted
with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at
this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so
unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the
principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of
ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry,
millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not
detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This
evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella
since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it
once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage,
and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the
crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they
were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad
pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that
could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his
horse.

"Oh, these odious gigs!" said Isabella, looking up. "How I detest them."
But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she
looked again and exclaimed, "Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!"

"Good heaven! 'Tis James!" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;
and, on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checked
with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant
having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was
delivered to his care.

Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received 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 development 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 she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the
hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short
bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face
and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore
the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy
where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be
easy. He took out his watch: "How long do you think we have been running
it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?"

"I do not know the distance." Her brother told her that it was
twenty-three miles.

"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 and a half indeed coming only
three and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible
if you can."

"He does look very hot, to be sure."

"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse
cannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.
What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?
Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a
Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran
it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.
I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind,
though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced to
meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:
'Ah! Thorpe,' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing as
this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.'
'Oh! D--,' said I; 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you
think he did, Miss Morland?"

"I am sure I cannot guess at all."

"Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,
lamps, silver moulding, all you see 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 inquiry 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 a few minutes'
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. "You will find,
however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some
people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;
Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
time."

"Yes," said Morland, who overheard this; "but you forget that your horse
was included."

"My horse! Oh, d---- it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are
you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?"

"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
particularly fond of it."

"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day."

"Thank you," said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
propriety of accepting such an offer.

"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow."

"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?"

"Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.
No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
while I am here."

"Shall you indeed!" said Catherine very seriously. "That will be forty
miles a day."

"Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown
tomorrow; mind, I am engaged."

"How delightful that will be!" cried Isabella, turning round. "My
dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will
not have room for a third."

"A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you."

This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than
a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every
woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as
she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female
mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that
of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is
concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which
had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, "Have you ever read
Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?"

"Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to
do."

Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question,
but he prevented her by saying, "Novels are all so full of nonsense
and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since
Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all the
others, they are the stupidest things in creation."

"I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
interesting."

"Not 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? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that
other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,
she who married the French emigrant."

"I suppose you mean Camilla?"

"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at
see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon
found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be
before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was
sure I should never be able to get through it."

"I have never read it."

"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at
see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not."

This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. "Ah, Mother!
How do you do?" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. "Where
did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.
Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look
out for a couple of good beds 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
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she
been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where
youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of
reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as
the door was closed on them, said, "Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe?" instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, "I do not like
him at all," she directly replied, "I like him very much; he seems very
agreeable."

"He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but
that will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the
rest of the family?"

"Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly."

"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman
I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is
so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;
and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your
praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss
Thorpe even you, Catherine," taking her hand with affection, "may be
proud of."

"Indeed I am," she replied; "I love her exceedingly, and am delighted
to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything 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 sincerity, "Indeed,
Catherine, I love you dearly."

Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression
on James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney
Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen,
invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter
to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet.
A pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the
invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he
had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties
uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then
left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened 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 8


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 chaperones, arm in
arm, into the ballroom, 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 whispered, "My dear creature, I am afraid I must leave you,
your brother is so amazingly impatient to begin; I know you will not
mind my going away, and I dare say John will be back in a moment,
and then you may easily find me out." Catherine, though a little
disappointed, had too much good nature to make any opposition, and the
others rising up, Isabella had only time to press her friend's hand and
say, "Good-bye, my dear love," before they hurried off. The younger
Miss Thorpes being also 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
immediately guessed to be his sister; thus unthinkingly throwing away
a fair opportunity of considering him lost to her forever, 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 sprang the instant conclusion of his sister's
now being by his side; and therefore, instead of turning of a deathlike
paleness and falling in a fit on Mrs. Allen's bosom, Catherine sat
erect, in the perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks only a little
redder than usual.

Mr. 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 everybody else too.
I tell Mr. Allen, when he talks of being sick of it, that I am sure he
should not complain, for it is so very agreeable a place, that it is
much better to be here than at home at this dull time of year. I tell
him he is quite in luck to be sent here for his health."

"And I hope, madam, that Mr. Allen will be obliged to like the place,
from finding it of service to him."

"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. A neighbour of ours,
Dr. Skinner, was here for his health last winter, and came away quite
stout."

"That circumstance must give great encouragement."

"Yes, sir--and Dr. Skinner and his family were here three months; so I
tell Mr. Allen he must not be in a hurry to get away."

Here they were interrupted by a request from Mrs. Thorpe to Mrs. Allen,
that she would move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Tilney
with seats, as they had agreed to join their party. This was accordingly
done, Mr. Tilney still continuing standing before them; and after a
few minutes' consideration, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This
compliment, delightful as it was, produced severe mortification to the
lady; and in giving her denial, she expressed her sorrow on the occasion
so very much as if she really felt it that had Thorpe, who joined her
just afterwards, been half a minute earlier, he might have thought her
sufferings rather too acute. The very easy manner in which he then told
her that he had kept her waiting did not by any means reconcile her more
to her lot; nor did the particulars which he entered into while they
were standing up, of the horses and dogs of the friend whom he had just
left, and of a proposed exchange of terriers between them, interest her
so much as to prevent her looking very often towards that part of the
room where she had left Mr. Tilney. Of her dear Isabella, to whom she
particularly longed to point out that 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 moralizing strain as this, she
was suddenly roused by a touch on the shoulder, and turning round,
perceived Mrs. Hughes directly behind her, attended by Miss Tilney and
a gentleman. "I beg your pardon, Miss Morland," said she, "for this
liberty--but I cannot anyhow get to Miss Thorpe, and Mrs. Thorpe said
she was sure you would not have the least objection to letting in this
young lady by you." Mrs. Hughes could not have applied to any creature
in the room more happy to oblige her than Catherine. The young ladies
were introduced to each other, Miss Tilney expressing a proper sense of
such goodness, Miss Morland with the real delicacy of a generous mind
making light of the obligation; and Mrs. Hughes, satisfied with having
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 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 her relationship to Mr. Tilney, was desirous
of being acquainted with her, and readily talked therefore whenever she
could think of anything 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 acquaintance, 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 without you."

"My dear Isabella, how was it possible for me to get at you? I could not
even see where you were."

"So I told your brother all the time--but he would not believe me. Do go
and see for her, Mr. Morland, said I--but all in vain--he would not stir
an inch. Was not it so, Mr. Morland? But you men are all so immoderately
lazy! I have been scolding him to such a degree, my dear Catherine, you
would be quite amazed. You know I never stand upon ceremony with such
people."

"Look at that young lady with the white beads round her head," whispered
Catherine, detaching her friend from James. "It is Mr. Tilney's sister."

"Oh! Heavens! You don't say so! Let me look at her this moment. What a
delightful girl! I never saw anything half so beautiful! But where is
her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Point him out to me this
instant, if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Morland, you are not to listen.
We are not talking about you."

"But what is all this whispering about? What is going on?"

"There now, I knew how it would be. You men have such restless
curiosity! Talk of the curiosity of women, indeed! 'Tis nothing. But be
satisfied, for you are not to know anything at all of the matter."

"And is that likely to satisfy me, do you think?"

"Well, I declare I never knew anything like you. What can it signify to
you, what we are talking of. Perhaps we are talking about you; therefore
I would advise you not to listen, or you may happen to hear something
not very agreeable."

In this commonplace chatter, which lasted some time, the original
subject seemed entirely forgotten; and though Catherine was very well
pleased to have it dropped for a while, she could not avoid a little
suspicion at the total suspension of all Isabella's impatient desire to
see Mr. Tilney. When the orchestra struck up a fresh dance, James would
have led his fair partner away, but she resisted. "I tell you, Mr.
Morland," she cried, "I would not do such a thing for all the world.
How can you be so teasing; only conceive, my dear Catherine, what your
brother wants me to do. He wants me to dance with him again, though
I tell him that it is a most improper thing, and entirely against the
rules. It would make us the talk of the place, if we were not to change
partners."

"Upon my honour," said James, "in these public assemblies, it is as
often done as not."

"Nonsense, how can you say so? But when you men have a point to carry,
you never stick at anything. My 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 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 opportunity of repeating
the agreeable request which had already flattered her once, made her
way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Thorpe as fast as she could, in the hope
of finding him still with them--a hope which, when it proved to be
fruitless, she felt to have been highly unreasonable. "Well, my dear,"
said Mrs. Thorpe, impatient for praise of her son, "I hope you have had
an agreeable partner."

"Very agreeable, madam."

"I am glad of it. John has charming spirits, has not he?"

"Did you meet Mr. Tilney, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen.

"No, where is he?"

"He was with us just now, and said he was so tired of lounging about,
that he was resolved to go and dance; so I thought perhaps he would ask
you, if he met with you."

"Where can he be?" said Catherine, looking round; but she had not looked
round long before she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.

"Ah! He has got a partner; I wish he had asked 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."

"Do not you? Then let us walk about and quiz people. Come along with
me, and I will show you the four greatest quizzers in the room; my two
younger sisters and their partners. I have been laughing at them this
half hour."

Again Catherine excused herself; and at last he walked off to quiz his
sisters by himself. The rest of the evening she found very dull; Mr.
Tilney was drawn away from their party at tea, to attend that of his
partner; Miss Tilney, though belonging to it, did not sit near her, and
James and Isabella were so much engaged in conversing together that the
latter had no leisure to bestow more on her friend than one smile, one
squeeze, and one "dearest Catherine."




CHAPTER 9


The progress of Catherine's unhappiness from the events of the evening
was as follows. It appeared first in a general dissatisfaction with
everybody about her, while she remained in the rooms, which speedily
brought on considerable weariness and a violent desire to go home. This,
on arriving in Pulteney Street, took the direction of extraordinary
hunger, and when that was appeased, changed into an earnest longing to
be in bed; such was the extreme point of her distress; for when there
she immediately fell into a sound 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
discourses and unlimited confidence, that she was most reasonably
encouraged to expect another friend from within its walls. Her plan
for the morning thus settled, she sat quietly down to her book after
breakfast, resolving to remain in the same place and the same employment
till the clock struck one; and from habitude very little incommoded by
the remarks and ejaculations of Mrs. Allen, whose vacancy of mind and
incapacity for thinking were such, that as she never talked a great
deal, so she could never be entirely silent; and, therefore, while she
sat at her work, if she lost her needle or broke her thread, if she
heard a carriage in the street, or saw a speck upon her gown, she must
observe it aloud, whether there were anyone 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 upstairs, 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 anybody else; and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again
could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who
thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as
Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to
speak plainer. "Well, ma'am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for
an hour or two? Shall I go?"

"Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with the most
placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get
ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, 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
downstairs. "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. Everything 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
anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke
her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately
made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely
owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the
reins, and the singular 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 inevitable 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 explanation,
"Old Allen, the man you are with."

"Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich."

"And no children at all?"

"No--not any."

"A famous thing for his next heirs. He is your godfather, is not he?"

"My godfather! No."

"But you are always very much with them."

"Yes, very much."

"Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough,
and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for
nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?"

"His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a
very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?"

"Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men's being in liquor.
Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of
this--that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not
be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous
good thing for us all."

"I 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 drunk in
Oxford."

"Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks
there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints
at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at
the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five
pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way.
Mine is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with
anything like it in Oxford--and that may account for it. But this will
just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there."

"Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that
you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I
am sure James does not drink so much."

This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which
no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting
almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it
ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal
of wine drunk 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 readily echoed
whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them
without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most
complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the
best goer, and himself the best coachman. "You do not really think,
Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the
matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the
subject, "that James's gig will break down?"

"Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in
your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have
been fairly worn out these ten years at least--and as for the body! Upon
my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the
most devilish little 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 assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity
will lead. Her own 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 moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the
affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the
point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real
opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, because it appeared to
her that he did not excel in giving those clearer insights, in making
those things plain which he had before made ambiguous; and, joining to
this, the consideration that he would not really suffer his sister and
his friend to be exposed to a danger from which he might easily preserve
them, she concluded at last that he must know the carriage to be in fact
perfectly safe, and therefore would alarm herself no longer. By him
the whole matter seemed entirely forgotten; and all the rest of his
conversation, or rather talk, began and ended with himself and his own
concerns. He told her of horses which he had bought for a trifle and
sold for incredible sums; of racing matches, in which his judgment had
infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting parties, in which he had
killed more birds (though without having one good shot) than all his
companions together; and described to her some famous day's sport, with
the fox-hounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the dogs
had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in which
the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own life
for a moment, had been constantly leading others into 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 altogether 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.

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, incredible, impossible! And she would neither believe her
own watch, nor her brother's, nor the servant's; she would believe no
assurance of it founded on reason or reality, till Morland produced his
watch, and ascertained the fact; to have doubted a moment longer 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 falsehood even to please Isabella;
but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice,
by not waiting for her answer. Her own feelings entirely engrossed
her; her wretchedness was most acute on finding herself obliged to go
directly home. It was ages since she had had a 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
despondency, 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 together. She says there was hardly
any veal to be got at market this morning, it is so uncommonly scarce."

"Did you see anybody else of our acquaintance?"

"Yes; we agreed to take a turn in the Crescent, and there we met Mrs.
Hughes, and Mr. and Miss Tilney 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 anything else."

"Did she tell you what part of Gloucestershire they come from?"

"Yes, she did; but I cannot recollect now. But they are very good kind
of people, and very rich. Mrs. Tilney was a Miss Drummond, and she
and Mrs. Hughes were schoolfellows; 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 inquired no further; she had heard enough to feel that
Mrs. Allen had no real intelligence to give, and that she was most
particularly unfortunate herself in having missed such a meeting with
both brother and sister. Could she have foreseen such a circumstance,
nothing should have persuaded her to go out with the others; and, as
it was, she could only lament her ill luck, and think over what she had
lost, till it was clear to her that the drive had by no means been very
pleasant and that John Thorpe himself was quite disagreeable.




CHAPTER 10


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 everybody? 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 anywhere."

"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 millions. We soon found
out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to
every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was
quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I
would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am
sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it."

"No, indeed I should not."

"Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You
would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense
of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my
cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by
for the world."

"Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark
upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my
head."

Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to
James.

Catherine's resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again
continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of
going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second
prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to
delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room,
where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr.
Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to
talk 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. 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 disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed
necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just
entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with
a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage
to 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 goodwill, 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 exclamation 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 engage lodgings for us."

"That never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I
thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday
a Miss Smith?"

"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes."

"I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?"

"Not very."

"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father."

Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to
go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said
Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?"

"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 biased by the texture of their muslin, and how
unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged,
the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone.
No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for
it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of
shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not
one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine.

She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different
from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been
exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to
avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could
not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to
dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all 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 someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious
for the attentions of someone 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 intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her
folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with
the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind,
when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance,
by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she
granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went
with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as
she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so
immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney, as if he had sought
her on purpose!--it did not appear to her that life could supply any
greater felicity.

Scarcely had they worked themselves into the quiet possession of a
place, however, when her attention was claimed by John Thorpe, who stood
behind her. "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 description as that."

"By heavens, if they do not, I will kick them out of the room for
blockheads. What chap have you there?" Catherine satisfied his
curiosity. "Tilney," he repeated. "Hum--I do not know him. A good figure
of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here is a friend
of mine, Sam Fletcher, has got one to sell that would suit anybody. 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 and I mean to get a house in
Leicestershire, against the next season. It is so d--uncomfortable,
living at an inn."

This was the last sentence by which he could weary Catherine's
attention, for he was just then 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 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 engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of
each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each
other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each
to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had
bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own
imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours,
or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You
will allow all this?"

"Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still
they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same
light, nor think the same duties belong to them."

"In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man
is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make
the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile.
But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the
compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the
lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which
struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison."

"No, indeed, I never thought of that."

"Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This
disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any
similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your
notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your
partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who
spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to
address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with
him as long as you chose?"

"Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he
talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young
men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with."

"And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!"

"Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody,
it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to
talk to anybody."

"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed
with courage. Do you find Bath as agreeable as when I had the honour of
making the inquiry before?"

"Yes, quite--more so, indeed."

"More so! Take care, or you will forget to be tired of it at the proper
time. You ought to be tired at the end of six weeks."

"I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months."

"Bath, compared with London, has little variety, and so everybody 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."

"And so I am at home--only I do not find so much of it. I walk about
here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every
street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen."

Mr. Tilney was very much amused.

"Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of
intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you
will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that
you did here."

"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs.
Allen, or anybody 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 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 everyday 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 concluded, a new source
of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since
her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented
environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all
eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might
find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister
that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like
it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put
it off--let us go tomorrow." 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 anything 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 11


The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only
a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most
favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year,
she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold
improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for
confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and
barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine.
She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive.
"She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the
clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out."

At about eleven o'clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the
windows caught Catherine's watchful eye, and "Oh! dear, I do believe it
will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone.

"I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen.

"No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to
nothing, or it may hold up before twelve."

"Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty."

"Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt."

"No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt."

After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as
she stood watching at a window.

"So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet."

"There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an
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!"

"Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in
the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put
on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had
rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; 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 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 today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment."
This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs.
Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give
their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We
shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me
for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily
believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago
if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify,
the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such
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! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can
hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go."

"Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?"

"The finest place in England--worth going fifty miles at any time to
see."

"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?"

"The oldest in the kingdom."

"But is it like what one reads of?"

"Exactly--the very same."

"But now really--are there towers and long 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 everywhere."

Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea
of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now."

"I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go
up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?"

"Yes, yes, every hole and corner."

"But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer,
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 counterpoise of good as might console her for
almost anything.

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
Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion,
"Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?"

"Who? Where?"

"On the right-hand pavement--she must be almost out of sight now."
Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother's arm,
walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her.
"Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried; "it is Miss Tilney; it
is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will
get out this moment and go to them." But to what purpose did she speak?
Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had
soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the
corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked
into the marketplace. Still, however, 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, encouraged his horse, made odd
noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having
no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit.
Her reproaches, however, were not spared. "How could you deceive me so,
Mr. Thorpe? How could you say that you saw them driving up the Lansdown
Road? I would not have had it happen so for the world. They must think
it so strange, so rude of me! To go by them, too, without saying a word!
You do not know how vexed I am; I shall have no pleasure at Clifton, nor
in anything 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.

Their drive, even when this subject was over, was not likely to be very
agreeable. Catherine's complaisance was no longer what it had been in
their former airing. She listened reluctantly, and her replies were
short. Blaize Castle remained her only comfort; towards that, she still
looked at intervals with pleasure; though rather than be disappointed of
the promised walk, and especially rather than be thought ill of by the
Tilneys, she would willingly have given up all the happiness which its
walls could supply--the happiness of a progress through a long suite of
lofty rooms, exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, though
now for many years deserted--the happiness of being stopped in their way
along narrow, winding vaults, by a low, grated door; or even of having
their lamp, their only lamp, extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and
of being left in total darkness. In the meanwhile, they proceeded on
their journey without any mischance, and were within view of the town
of 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 today; 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.

"If your brother had not got such a d--beast to drive," said he soon
afterwards, "we might have done it very well. My horse would have
trotted to Clifton within the hour, if left to himself, and I have
almost broke my arm with pulling him in to that cursed broken-winded
jade's 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."

"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
d--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
endeavour 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 companion so; and they
returned to Pulteney Street without her speaking twenty words.

As she entered the house, the footman told her that a gentleman and lady
had called and inquired for her a few minutes after her setting off;
that, when he told them she was gone out with Mr. Thorpe, the lady had
asked whether any message had been left for her; and on his saying no,
had felt for a card, but said she had none about her, and went away.
Pondering over these heart-rending tidings, Catherine walked slowly
upstairs. At the head of them she was met by Mr. Allen, who, on hearing
the reason of their speedy return, said, "I am glad your brother had so
much sense; I am glad you are come back. It was a strange, wild scheme."

They all spent the evening together at Thorpe's. Catherine was disturbed
and out of spirits; but Isabella seemed to find a pool of commerce, in
the fate of which she shared, by private partnership with Morland, a
very good equivalent for the quiet and country air of an inn at Clifton.
Her satisfaction, too, in not being at the Lower Rooms was spoken more
than once. "How I pity the poor creatures that are going there! How glad
I am that I am not amongst them! I wonder whether it will be a full ball
or not! They have not begun dancing yet. I would not be there for
all the world. It is so delightful to have an evening now and then
to oneself. I dare say it will not be a very good ball. I know the
Mitchells will not be there. I am sure I pity everybody 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 anybody here be a restraint on you. I dare say
we could do very well without you; but you men think yourselves of such
consequence."

Catherine could almost have accused Isabella of being wanting in
tenderness towards herself and her sorrows, so very little did they
appear to dwell on her mind, and so very inadequate was the comfort she
offered. "Do not be so dull, my dearest creature," she whispered. "You
will quite break my heart. It was amazingly shocking, to be sure; but
the Tilneys were entirely to blame. Why were not they more punctual?
It was dirty, indeed, but what did that signify? I am sure John and I
should not have minded it. I never mind going through anything, 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 herself, if she get another good night's
rest in the course of the next three months.




CHAPTER 12


"Mrs. Allen," said Catherine the next morning, "will there be any harm
in my calling on Miss Tilney today? I shall not be easy till I have
explained everything."

"Go, by all means, my dear; only put on a white gown; Miss Tilney always
wears white."

Catherine cheerfully complied, and being properly equipped, was more
impatient than ever to be at the pump-room, that she might inform
herself of General Tilney's lodgings, for though she believed they were
in Milsom Street, she was not certain of the house, and Mrs. Allen's
wavering convictions only made it more doubtful. To Milsom Street she
was directed, and having made herself perfect in the number, hastened
away with eager steps and a beating heart to pay her visit, explain her
conduct, and be forgiven; tripping lightly through the church-yard, and
resolutely turning away her eyes, that she might not be obliged to
see her beloved Isabella and her dear family, who, she had reason to
believe, were in a shop hard by. She reached the house without any
impediment, looked at the number, knocked at the door, and inquired for
Miss Tilney. The man believed Miss Tilney to be at home, but was not
quite certain. Would she be pleased to send up her name? She gave her
card. In a few minutes the servant returned, and with a look which did
not quite confirm his words, said he had been mistaken, for that Miss
Tilney was walked out. Catherine, with a blush of mortification, left
the house. She felt almost persuaded that Miss Tilney was at home, and
too much offended to admit her; and as she retired down the street,
could not withhold one glance at the drawing-room windows, in
expectation of seeing her there, but no one appeared at them. At the
bottom of the street, however, she looked back again, and 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 unforgivingness it might with propriety lead, nor to what rigours of
rudeness in return it might justly make her amenable.

Dejected and humbled, she had even some thoughts of not going with the
others to the theatre that night; but it must be confessed that they
were not of long 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 authority, rendered everything else of the kind
"quite horrid." She was not deceived in her own expectation of pleasure;
the comedy so well suspended her care that no one, observing her during
the first four acts, would have supposed she had any wretchedness about
her. On the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden view of Mr.
Henry Tilney and his father, joining a party in the opposite box,
recalled her to anxiety and distress. The stage could no longer excite
genuine merriment--no longer keep her whole attention. Every other look
upon an average was directed towards the opposite box; and, for the
space of two entire scenes, did she thus watch Henry Tilney, without
being once able to catch his eye. No longer could he be suspected of
indifference for a play; his notice was never withdrawn from the stage
during two whole scenes. At length, however, he did look towards her,
and he bowed--but such a bow! No smile, no continued observance attended
it; his eyes were immediately returned to their former direction.
Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have run round to
the box in which he sat and forced 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
resolving, 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 enlighten him on the past only by
avoiding his sight, or flirting with somebody else--she took to herself
all the shame of misconduct, or at least of its appearance, and was only
eager for an opportunity of explaining its cause.

The play concluded--the curtain fell--Henry Tilney was no longer to be
seen where he had hitherto sat, but his father remained, and perhaps he
might be now coming round to their box. She was right; in a few minutes
he appeared, and, making his way through the then thinning rows, spoke
with like calm politeness to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such
calmness was he answered by the latter: "Oh! Mr. Tilney, I have been
quite wild to speak to 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 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 everything that need be said of his sister's concern, regret, and
dependence on Catherine's honour. "Oh! Do not say Miss Tilney was not
angry," cried Catherine, "because I know she was; for she would not see
me this morning when I called; I saw her walk out of the house the next
minute after my leaving it; I was hurt, but I was not affronted. Perhaps
you did not know I had been there."

"I was not within at the time; but I heard of it from Eleanor, and she
has been wishing ever since to see you, to explain the reason of such
incivility; but perhaps I can do it as well. It was nothing more than
that my father--they were just preparing to walk out, and he being
hurried for time, and not caring to have it put off--made a point of her
being denied. That was all, I do assure you. She was very much vexed,
and meant to make her apology as soon as possible."

Catherine's mind was greatly eased by this information, yet a something
of solicitude remained, from which sprang the following question,
thoroughly artless in itself, though rather distressing to the
gentleman: "But, Mr. Tilney, why were you less generous than your
sister? If she felt such confidence in my good intentions, and could
suppose it to be only a mistake, why should you be so ready to take
offence?"

"Me! I take offence!"

"Nay, 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 inquiry, as she pointed them out to her
companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every military
man, had a very large acquaintance.

When the entertainment was over, Thorpe came to assist them in getting
out. Catherine was the immediate object of his gallantry; and, while
they waited in the lobby for a chair, he prevented the inquiry which had
travelled from her heart almost to the tip of her tongue, by asking, in
a consequential manner, whether she had seen him talking with General
Tilney: "He is a fine old fellow, upon my soul! Stout, active--looks
as young as his son. I have a great regard for him, I assure you: a
gentleman-like, good sort of fellow as ever lived."

"But how came you to know him?"

"Know him! There are few people much about town that I do not know. I
have met him forever at the Bedford; and I knew his face again today 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 than could have been expected.




CHAPTER 13


Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have now
passed in review before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes
and fears, mortifications and pleasures, have been separately stated,
and the pangs of Sunday only now remain to be described, and close the
week. The Clifton scheme had been deferred, not relinquished, and on
the afternoon's Crescent of this day, it was brought forward again. In a
private consultation between Isabella and James, the former of whom had
particularly set her heart upon going, and the latter no less anxiously
placed his upon pleasing her, it was agreed that, provided the weather
were fair, the party should take place on the following morning; and
they were to set off very early, in order to be at home in good time.
The affair thus determined, and Thorpe's approbation secured, Catherine
only remained to be 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 acquiescence expected by Isabella, Catherine looked grave, was very
sorry, but could not go. The engagement which ought to have kept her
from joining in the former attempt would make it impossible for her to
accompany them now. She had that moment settled with Miss Tilney to take
their proposed walk tomorrow; 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
tomorrow, 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 engagement, and must only beg to put
off the walk till Tuesday."

"No, it would not be easy. I could not do it. There has been no prior
engagement." But Isabella became only more and more urgent, calling
on her in the most affectionate manner, addressing her by the most
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 Catherine to have so feeling a heart, so
sweet a temper, to be so easily persuaded by those she loved. But all
in vain; Catherine felt herself to be in the right, and though pained
by such tender, such flattering supplication, could not allow it to
influence her. Isabella then tried another method. She reproached her
with having more affection for Miss Tilney, though she had known her so
little a while, than for her best and oldest friends, with being grown
cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I cannot help being
jealous, Catherine, when I see myself slighted for strangers, I, who
love you so excessively! When once my affections are placed, it is not
in the power of anything to change them. But I believe my feelings are
stronger than anybody's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace;
and to see myself supplanted in your friendship by strangers does cut me
to the quick, I own. These Tilneys seem to swallow up everything else."

Catherine thought this reproach equally strange and unkind. Was it the
part of a friend thus to expose her feelings to the notice of others?
Isabella appeared to her ungenerous and selfish, regardless of
everything but her own gratification. These painful ideas crossed her
mind, though she said nothing. Isabella, in the meanwhile, had applied
her handkerchief to her eyes; and Morland, miserable at such a sight,
could not help saying, "Nay, Catherine. I think you cannot stand out any
longer now. The sacrifice is not much; and to oblige such a friend--I
shall think you quite unkind, if you still refuse."

This was the first time of her brother's openly siding against her, and
anxious to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they
would only put off their scheme till Tuesday, which they might easily
do, as it depended only on themselves, she could go with them, and
everybody might then be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate
answer; "that could not be, for Thorpe did not know that he might not
go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but could do no more; and
a short silence ensued, which was broken by Isabella, who in a voice of
cold resentment said, "Very well, then there is an end of the party.
If Catherine does not go, I cannot. I cannot be the only woman. I would
not, upon any account in the world, do so improper a thing."

"Catherine, you must go," said James.

"But why cannot Mr. Thorpe drive one of his other sisters? I dare say
either of them would like to go."

"Thank ye," cried Thorpe, "but I did not come to Bath to drive my
sisters about, and look like a fool. No, if you do not go, d---- me if I
do. I only go for the sake of driving you."

"That is a compliment which gives me no pleasure." But her words were
lost on Thorpe, who had turned abruptly away.

The three others still continued together, walking in a most
uncomfortable manner to poor Catherine; 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. At one moment she was softened, at another irritated; always
distressed, but always steady.

"I did not think you had been so obstinate, Catherine," said James;
"you were not used to be so hard to persuade; 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow, 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.

"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
everything 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 determined to persevere. As
she walked, she reflected on what had passed. It was painful to her to
disappoint and displease them, particularly to displease her brother;
but she could not repent her resistance. Setting her own inclination
apart, to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Tilney, to
have retracted a promise voluntarily made only five minutes before,
and on a false pretence too, must have been wrong. She had not been
withstanding them on selfish principles alone, she had not consulted
merely her own gratification; that might have been ensured in some
degree by the excursion itself, by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had
attended to what was due to others, and to her own character in their
opinion. Her conviction of being right, however, was not enough to
restore her composure; till she had spoken to Miss Tilney she could not
be at ease; and quickening her pace when she got clear of the Crescent,
she almost ran 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 upstairs. 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 explanation at all, was instantly given. "I am
come in a great hurry--It was all a mistake--I never promised to go--I
told them from the first I could not go.--I ran away in a great hurry
to explain it.--I did not care what you thought of me.--I would not stay
for the servant."

The business, however, though not perfectly elucidated by this speech,
soon ceased to be a puzzle. Catherine found that John Thorpe 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.

The affair thus happily settled, she was introduced by Miss Tilney
to her father, and received by him with such ready, such solicitous
politeness as recalled Thorpe's information to her mind, and made her
think with pleasure that he might be sometimes depended on. To such
anxious attention was the general's civility carried, that not aware of
her extraordinary swiftness in entering the house, he was quite angry
with the servant whose neglect had reduced her to open the door of the
apartment herself. "What did William mean by it? He should make a point
of inquiring into the matter." And if Catherine had not most warmly
asserted his innocence, it seemed likely that William would lose the
favour of his master forever, 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
everything gallant as they went downstairs, 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 anything
more of the offended party; and now that she had been triumphant
throughout, had carried her point, and was secure of her walk, she began
(as the flutter of her spirits subsided) to doubt whether she had been
perfectly right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given way
to their entreaties, she should have been spared the distressing idea of
a friend displeased, a brother angry, and a scheme of great happiness
to both destroyed, perhaps through her means. To ease her mind, and
ascertain by the opinion of an unprejudiced person what her own conduct
had really been, she took occasion to mention before Mr. Allen the
half-settled scheme of her brother and the Thorpes for the following
day. Mr. Allen caught at it directly. "Well," said he, "and do you think
of going too?"

"No; I had just engaged myself to walk with Miss Tilney before they told
me of it; and therefore you know I could not go with them, could I?"

"No, certainly not; and I am glad you do not think of it. These schemes
are not at all the thing. Young men and women driving about the country
in open carriages! Now and then it is very well; but going to inns and
public places together! It is not right; and I wonder Mrs. Thorpe should
allow it. I am glad you do not think of going; I am sure Mrs. Morland
would not be pleased. Mrs. Allen, are not you of my way of 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 improper, I would not have gone with
Mr. Thorpe at all; but I always hoped you would tell me, if you thought
I was doing wrong."

"And so I should, my dear, you may depend on it; for as I told Mrs.
Morland at parting, I would always do the best for you in my power. But
one must not be over particular. Young people will be young people,
as your good 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 promise to them in
order to do what was wrong in itself, if she had been guilty of one
breach of propriety, only to enable her to be guilty of another?




CHAPTER 14


The next morning was fair, and Catherine almost expected another attack
from the assembled party. With Mr. Allen to support her, she felt no
dread of the event: but she would gladly be spared a contest, where
victory itself was painful, and was heartily rejoiced therefore at
neither seeing nor hearing anything of them. The Tilneys called for
her at the appointed time; and no new difficulty arising, no sudden
recollection, no unexpected summons, no impertinent intrusion to
disconcert their measures, my heroine was most unnaturally able to
fulfil her engagement, though it was made with the hero 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 surprised.

"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 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
inquiry of 'Have you read this?' and 'Have you read that?' I shall soon
leave you as far behind me as--what shall I say?--I want an appropriate
simile.--as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when
she went with her aunt into Italy. Consider how many years I have had
the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford, while you were
a good little girl working your sampler at home!"

"Not very good, I am afraid. But now really, do not you think Udolpho
the nicest book in the world?"

"The nicest--by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
upon the binding."

"Henry," said Miss Tilney, "you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he
is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding
fault with me, for some incorrectness 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."

"I am sure," cried Catherine, "I did not mean to say anything 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 everything. 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 best. It is a most interesting work. You are fond of that kind of
reading?"

"To say the truth, I do not much like any other."

"Indeed!"

"That is, I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and
do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be
interested in. Can you?"

"Yes, I am fond of history."

"I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me
nothing that does not either vex or weary me. The quarrels of popes and
kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for
nothing, and hardly any women at all--it is very tiresome: and yet I
often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it
must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes' mouths,
their thoughts and designs--the chief of all this must be invention, and
invention is what delights me in other books."

"Historians, 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 principal facts they have sources of intelligence
in former histories and records, which may be as much depended on,
I conclude, as anything 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 Mr. Robertson, than if
the genuine words of Caractacus, Agricola, or Alfred the Great."

"You are fond of history! And so are Mr. Allen and my father; and I have
two brothers who do not dislike it. So many instances within my small
circle of friends is remarkable! At this rate, I shall not pity the
writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it
is all very well, but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes,
which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be
labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck
me as a hard fate; and though I know it is all very right and necessary,
I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on
purpose to do it."

"That little boys and girls should be tormented," said Henry, "is what
no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can
deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe
that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher
aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well
qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature
time of life. I use the verb 'to torment,' as I observed to be your own
method, instead of 'to instruct,' supposing them to be now admitted as
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 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 an high hill, and that a clear blue sky was no longer a proof
of a fine day. She was heartily ashamed of her ignorance. A misplaced
shame. Where people wish to attach, they should always be ignorant.
To come with a well-informed mind is to come with an inability of
administering to the vanity of others, which a sensible person would
always wish to avoid. A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of
knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

The advantages of natural folly in a beautiful girl have been already
set forth by the capital pen of a sister author; and to her treatment
of the subject I will only add, in justice to men, that though to the
larger and more trifling part of the sex, imbecility in females is a
great enhancement of their personal charms, there is a portion of them
too reasonable and too well informed themselves to desire anything
more in woman than ignorance. But Catherine did not know her own
advantages--did not know that a good-looking girl, with an affectionate
heart and a very ignorant mind, cannot fail of attracting a clever young
man, unless circumstances are particularly untoward. In the present
instance, she confessed and lamented her want of knowledge, declared
that she would give anything in the world to be able to draw; and
a lecture on the picturesque immediately followed, in which his
instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in
everything 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 foregrounds, distances, and second distances--side-screens
and perspectives--lights and shades; and Catherine was so hopeful a
scholar that when they gained the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily
rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy to make part of a landscape.
Delighted with her progress, and fearful of wearying her with too much
wisdom at once, Henry suffered the subject to decline, and by an easy
transition from a piece of rocky fragment and the withered oak which
he had placed near its summit, to oaks in general, to forests, the
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
disquisition 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 nature?"

"That I do not know, nor who is the author. I have only heard that it is
to be more horrible than anything 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 everything of the kind."

"You speak with astonishing composure! But I hope your friend's accounts
have been exaggerated; and if such a design is known beforehand, proper
measures will undoubtedly be taken by government to prevent its coming
to effect."

"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
generosity of my soul than the clearness of my head. I have no patience
with such of my sex as disdain to let themselves sometimes down to the
comprehension of yours. Perhaps the abilities of women are neither sound
nor acute--neither vigorous nor keen. Perhaps they may want observation,
discernment, judgment, fire, genius, and wit."

"Miss Morland, do not mind what he says; but have the goodness to
satisfy me as to this dreadful riot."

"Riot! What riot?"

"My 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 frontispiece to the first, of two tombstones and a lantern--do you
understand? And you, Miss Morland--my stupid sister has mistaken all
your clearest expressions. You talked of expected horrors in London--and
instead of instantly conceiving, as any rational creature would have
done, that such words could relate only to a circulating library, she
immediately pictured to herself a mob of three thousand men assembling
in St. George's Fields, the Bank attacked, the Tower threatened, the
streets of London flowing with blood, a detachment of the Twelfth 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. Forgive her stupidity. The fears of the
sister have added to the weakness of the woman; but she is by no means a
simpleton in general."

Catherine looked grave. "And now, Henry," said Miss Tilney, "that you
have made us understand each other, you may as well make Miss Morland
understand yourself--unless you mean to have her think you 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 surprise, 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 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 ribbon which must be bought without 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."

Catherine spoke the pleasure she really felt on hearing this part of the
arrangement.

"Oh! yes," rejoined the other, "Maria is gone. She was quite wild to go.
She thought it would be something very fine. I cannot say I admire her
taste; and for my part, I was determined from the first not to go, if
they pressed me ever so much."

Catherine, a little doubtful of this, could not help answering, "I wish
you could have gone too. It is a pity you could not all go."

"Thank you; but it is quite a matter of indifference to me. Indeed, I
would not have gone on any account. I was saying so to Emily and Sophia
when you overtook us."

Catherine was still unconvinced; but glad that Anne should have the
friendship of an Emily and a Sophia to console her, she bade her adieu
without much uneasiness, and returned home, pleased that the party had
not been prevented by her refusing to join it, and very heartily wishing
that it might be too pleasant to allow either James or Isabella to
resent her resistance any longer.




CHAPTER 15


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 anybody could conceive. Such was the
information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded thus much in
detail--that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate some soup,
and bespoke an early dinner, walked down to the pump-room, tasted the
water, and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; thence adjourned
to eat ice at a pastry-cook's, and 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, 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 Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began: "Yes,
my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not deceived
you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything."

Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.

"Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend," continued the other, "compose
yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us sit down and
talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my note?
Sly creature! Oh! 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 comprehended 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 anything 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 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 effusion, 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 attached to my dear Morland's family than to my own."

This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.

"You are so like your dear brother," continued Isabella, "that I quite
doted on you the first moment I saw you. But so it always is with me;
the first moment settles everything. 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 certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep
a wink all right for thinking of it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless
nights I have had on your brother's account! I would not have you suffer
half what I have done! I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I will
not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it. I
feel that I have betrayed myself perpetually--so unguarded in speaking
of my partiality for the church! But my secret I was always sure would
be safe with 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 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 agitation
to the mind of Isabella. Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose
their son's wishes. "It is impossible," said she, "for parents to be
more kind, or more desirous of their children's happiness; I have no
doubt of their consenting 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 anybody!"

Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.

"Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble. The difference of fortune can be
nothing to signify."

"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify
nothing; but we must not expect such disinterestedness in many. As for
myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed. Had I the
command of millions, were I mistress of the whole world, your brother
would be my only choice."

This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as novelty,
gave Catherine a most pleasing 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 your father's answer. Morland
says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury, we may have it tomorrow.
Tomorrow? I know I shall never have courage to open the letter. I know
it will be the death of me."

A reverie succeeded this conviction--and when Isabella spoke again, it
was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.

Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young lover himself,
who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for Wiltshire.
Catherine wished to congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her
eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight parts of
speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
ease. Impatient for the realization of all that he hoped at home, his
adieus were not long; and they would have been yet shorter, had he not
been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of his fair one that
he would go. Twice was he called almost from the door by her eagerness
to have him gone. "Indeed, Morland, I must drive you away. Consider how
far you have to ride. I cannot bear to see you linger so. For heaven's
sake, waste no more time. There, go, go--I insist on it."

The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were inseparable
for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew along.
Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were acquainted with everything, and
who seemed only to want Mr. Morland's consent, to consider Isabella's
engagement 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 unprivileged younger sisters. To
Catherine's simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither
kindly meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would
hardly have 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 ingenuity, on one side in the mystery of an affected
secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.

Catherine was with her friend again the next day, endeavouring to
support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours before
the delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time
of reasonable 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 everything 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
visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath with
satisfaction. Her heart was overflowing with tenderness. It was "dear
John" and "dear Catherine" at every word; "dear Anne and dear Maria"
must immediately be made sharers in their felicity; and two "dears" at
once before the name of Isabella were not more than that beloved child
had now well earned. John himself was no skulker in joy. He not 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, containing
little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was
deferred till James could write again. But for particulars Isabella
could well afford to wait. The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland's
promise; his honour was pledged to make everything easy; and by what
means their income was to be formed, whether landed property were to
be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which her
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 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-bye." 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.

"Shall not you be late at Devizes?" said Catherine. He made no answer;
but after a minute's silence burst out with, "A famous good thing this
marrying scheme, upon my soul! A clever fancy of Morland's and Belle's.
What do you think of it, Miss Morland? 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 forcing a foolish
laugh--"I say, then you know, we may try the truth of this same old
song."

"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good journey. I dine with
Miss Tilney today, 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 anybody
living, I believe. A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only
good nature, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you
have such--upon my soul, I do not know anybody 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 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
insensibility. 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.




CHAPTER 16


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 acquaintance with Miss Tilney, from the intercourse
of the day, she seemed hardly so intimate with her as before; instead
of seeing Henry Tilney to greater advantage than ever, in the ease of a
family party, he had never said so little, nor been so little agreeable;
and, in spite of their father's great civilities to her--in spite of his
thanks, invitations, and compliments--it had been a release to get
away from him. It puzzled her to account for all this. It could not
be General Tilney's fault. That he was perfectly agreeable and
good-natured, and altogether a very charming man, did not admit of a
doubt, for he was tall and handsome, and Henry's father. He could not
be accountable for his children's want of spirits, or for her want of
enjoyment in his company. The former she hoped at last might have
been accidental, and the latter she could only attribute to her own
stupidity. Isabella, on hearing the particulars of the visit, gave
a different explanation: "It was all pride, pride, insufferable
haughtiness and pride! She had long suspected the family to be very
high, 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! 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 inconstancy is my
aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear
Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you."

"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."

"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness!
Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has
the most constant heart."

"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for
anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed
to be his only care to entertain and make me happy."

"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he
is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's
judgment--"

"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet
them at the rooms."

"And must I go?"

"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled."

"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But
do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will
be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg;
that is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to
death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he
guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall
insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself."

Isabella's opinion of the Tilneys did not influence her friend; she was
sure there had been no insolence in the manners either of brother or
sister; and she did not credit there being any pride in their hearts.
The evening rewarded her confidence; she was met by one with the same
kindness, and by the other with the same attention, as heretofore: Miss
Tilney took pains to be near her, and Henry asked her to dance.

Having heard the day before in Milsom Street that their elder brother,
Captain Tilney, was expected almost every hour, she was at no loss for
the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man, whom she had
never seen before, and who now evidently belonged to their party. She
looked at him with great admiration, and even supposed it possible that
some people might think him handsomer than his brother, though, in her
eyes, his air was more assuming, and his countenance less prepossessing.
His taste and manners were beyond a doubt decidedly inferior; for,
within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of
dancing himself, but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it
possible. From the latter circumstance it may be 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 greatcoats, by whom she will hereafter
be forced into a traveling-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 everything 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
forever, she could not have her partner conveyed from her sight without
very uneasy sensations. Her suspense was of full five minutes' duration;
and she was beginning to think it a very long quarter of an hour, when
they both returned, and an explanation was given, by Henry's requesting
to know if she thought her friend, Miss Thorpe, would have any objection
to dancing, as his brother would be most happy to be introduced to
her. Catherine, without hesitation, replied that she was very sure Miss
Thorpe did not mean to dance at all. The cruel reply was passed on to
the other, and he immediately walked away.

"Your brother will not mind it, I know," said she, "because I heard him
say before that he hated dancing; but it was very good-natured in him
to think of it. I 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 is such a one likely to be influenced, What
is the inducement most likely to act upon such a person's feelings, age,
situation, and probable habits of life considered--but, How should 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 unintelligible."

"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language."

"But pray tell me what you mean."

"Shall I indeed? Do you really desire it? But you are not aware of the
consequences; it will involve you in a very cruel embarrassment, and
certainly bring on a disagreement between us."

"No, no; it shall not do either; I am not afraid."

"Well, then, I only meant that your attributing my brother's wish of
dancing with Miss Thorpe to good nature alone convinced me of your being
superior in good nature yourself to all the rest of the world."

Catherine blushed and disclaimed, and the gentleman's predictions were
verified. There was a something, 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 explanation of this
extraordinary change which could at that time be given; but as it
was not quite enough for Catherine's comprehension, she spoke her
astonishment in very plain terms to her partner.

"I cannot think how it could happen! Isabella was so determined not to
dance."

"And did Isabella never change her mind before?"

"Oh! But, because--And your brother! After what you told him from me,
how could he think of going to ask her?"

"I cannot take 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
attraction; her firmness, you know, could only be understood by
yourself."

"You are laughing; but, I assure you, Isabella is very firm in general."

"It is as much as should be said of anyone. To be always firm must be
to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment;
and, without reference to my brother, I really think Miss Thorpe has by
no means chosen ill in fixing on the present hour."

The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse
till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room
arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: "I do not wonder at your
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?"

"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 miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am
so glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his
nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was
upon us."

"He is very handsome indeed."

"Handsome! 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 unwelcome, no more than he had expected, was borne
by him without discontent. Catherine, whose expectations had been as
unfixed as her ideas of her father's income, and whose judgment was now
entirely led by her brother, felt equally well satisfied, and heartily
congratulated Isabella on having everything 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 and by, I dare say he will, for I am sure he must be an
excellent good-hearted man. Four hundred is but a small income to begin
on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do
not consider how little you ever want, my dear."

"It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot 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 everybody feel for you. There never was a young
woman so beloved as you are by everybody 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
everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to
do what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these
insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father has promised
to do as much as he can afford."

Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine, there
cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much
smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that
makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if
our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should
not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out.
There's the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are
to pass before your brother can hold the living."

"Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see
into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the
present vexation; and everybody 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, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought
otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the
most gratifying kindness.




CHAPTER 17


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 everything 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
comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for
that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite
but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this
business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her
joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she
expressed her delight in Mr. Allen's lengthened stay than Miss Tilney
told her of her father's having just determined upon quitting Bath
by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of
the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment.
Catherine's countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she
echoed Miss Tilney's concluding words, "By the end of another week!"

"Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I
think a fair trial. He has been 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 forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has
perhaps told you, on Saturday se'nnight. A letter from my steward tells
me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope
of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of
my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And
could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a
single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene
of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in
Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its
presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath
than yourself. Modesty such as 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 restrain its expressions within the language of
tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her
company so warmly solicited! Everything 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 obtained their sanction of
his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may
expect philosophy from all the world."

Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and
the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary
reference to Fullerton would allow.

The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through
the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were
now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture,
with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she
hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on
the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their
daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had
been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their
ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though
not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being
favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune,
circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate 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 visitor, she
was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society
she mostly prized--and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to
be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in
degree to her passion for Henry Tilney--and castles and 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 visitor of an hour had seemed too nearly impossible for desire.
And yet, this was to happen. With all the chances against her of house,
hall, place, park, court, and cottage, Northanger turned up an abbey,
and she was to be its inhabitant. Its long, damp passages, its narrow
cells and ruined chapel, were to be within her daily reach, and she
could not entirely subdue the hope of some traditional legends, some
awful memorials of an injured and ill-fated nun.

It was wonderful that her friends should seem so little elated by the
possession of such a home, that the consciousness 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 inquiries she was eager to make of Miss Tilney; but so
active were her thoughts, that when these inquiries were answered, she
was hardly more assured than before, of Northanger Abbey having been
a richly endowed convent at the time of the Reformation, of its having
fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the Tilneys on its dissolution,
of a large portion of the ancient building still making a part of the
present dwelling although the rest was decayed, or of its standing low
in a valley, sheltered from the north and east by rising woods of oak.




CHAPTER 18


With a mind thus full of happiness, Catherine was hardly aware that two
or three days had passed away, without her seeing Isabella for more than
a few minutes together. She began first to be sensible of this, and
to sigh for her conversation, as she walked along the pump-room one
morning, by Mrs. Allen's side, without anything 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 uneasy, Isabella, James will soon be here."

"Psha! My dear creature," she replied, "do not think me such a simpleton
as to be always wanting to confine him to my elbow. It would be hideous
to be always together; we should be the jest of the place. And so you
are going to Northanger! I am amazingly glad of it. It is one of the
finest old places in England, I understand. I shall depend upon a most
particular description of it."

"You shall certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you
looking for? Are your sisters coming?"

"I am not looking for anybody. One's eyes must be somewhere, and you
know what a foolish trick I have of fixing mine, when my thoughts are an
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 compliments. His attentions were such as a child must
have noticed. And it was but half an hour before he left Bath that you
gave him the most positive encouragement. He says so in this letter,
says that he as good as made 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 intended to encourage him. "As to any attentions on his
side, I do declare, upon my honour, I never was sensible of them for a
moment--except just his asking me to dance the first day of his coming.
And as to making me an offer, or anything like it, there must be some
unaccountable mistake. I could not have misunderstood a thing of that
kind, you know! And, as I ever wish to be 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 concerned 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--he is not
the person." Isabella was silent. "My dear friend, you must not be angry
with me. I cannot suppose your brother cares so very much about me. And,
you know, we shall still be sisters."

"Yes, yes" (with a blush), "there are more ways than one of our being
sisters. But where am I wandering to? Well, my dear Catherine, the case
seems to be that you are determined against poor John--is not it so?"

"I certainly cannot return his affection, and as 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 subject, and therefore I have.
But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it a very
foolish, imprudent business, 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 nowadays; and after all that romancers may say, there
is no doing without money. I only wonder John could think of it; he
could not have received my last."

"You do acquit me, then, of anything wrong?--You are convinced that I
never meant to deceive your brother, never suspected him of liking me
till this moment?"

"Oh! As to that," answered Isabella laughingly, "I do not pretend to
determine what your thoughts and designs in time past may have been. All
that is best known to yourself. A little harmless flirtation or so will
occur, and one is often drawn on to give more encouragement than one
wishes to stand by. But you may be assured that I am the last person in
the world to judge you severely. All those things should be allowed for
in youth and high spirits. What one means one day, you know, one may not
mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter."

"But my opinion of your brother never did alter; it was always the same.
You are describing what never happened."

"My dearest Catherine," continued the other without at all listening to
her, "I would not for all the world be the means of hurrying you into an
engagement before you knew what you were about. I do not think 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 you, for people seldom
know what they would be at, young men especially, they are so amazingly
changeable and inconstant. What I say is, why should a brother's
happiness be dearer to me than a friend's? You know I carry my notions
of friendship pretty high. But, above all things, my dear Catherine, do
not be in a hurry. Take my word for it, that if you are in too great
a hurry, you will certainly live to repent it. Tilney says there is
nothing people are so often deceived in as the state of their own
affections, and I 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!"

"Psha, nonsense!" was Isabella's answer in the same half whisper. "Why
do you put such things into my head? If I could believe it--my spirit,
you know, is pretty independent."

"I wish your heart were independent. That would be enough for me."

"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? You men have
none of you any hearts."

"If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough."

"Do they? I am sorry for it; I am sorry they find anything 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 encouraging him;
unconsciously it must be, for Isabella's attachment to James was as
certain and well acknowledged as her engagement. To doubt her truth
or good intentions was impossible; and yet, during the whole of their
conversation her manner had been odd. She wished Isabella had talked
more like her usual self, and not so much about money, and had not
looked so well pleased at the sight of Captain Tilney. How strange that
she should not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a
hint of it, to put her on her guard, and prevent all the pain which
her too lively behaviour might otherwise create both for him and her
brother.

The compliment of John Thorpe's affection did not make amends for this
thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as
from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he
could mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement
convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious.
In vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in
wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love
with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his
attentions; she had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said
many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never
be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present
ease and comfort.




CHAPTER 19


A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to
suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of
her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature.
When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their 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 had nothing worse appeared, that might only have spread
a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her
in public, admitting Captain Tilney's attentions as readily as they were
offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice
and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be 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 concerned. Though his looks
did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, 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 remonstrance, 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?"

He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something 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."

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 occasion, I assure
you I can only guess at."

"Well?"

"Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To
be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before
you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young
man; he has had about a week's acquaintance with your friend, and he has
known her engagement almost as long as he has known her."

"Well," said Catherine, after some moments' 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 uncomfortable about it? Does not he
want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to
him, he would go."

"My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your
brother's comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried
a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or
Miss Thorpe's, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good
behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain
Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him
only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this--and you may
be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, 'Do not
be uneasy,' because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as
little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment
of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that
real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no
disagreement between them can be of any 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.




CHAPTER 20


Mr. and Mrs. Allen were sorry to lose their young friend, whose good
humour and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and in the
promotion of whose enjoyment their own had been gently increased. Her
happiness in going with Miss Tilney, however, prevented their wishing
it otherwise; and, as they were to remain only one more week in Bath
themselves, her quitting them now would not long be felt. Mr. Allen
attended her to Milsom Street, where she was to breakfast, and saw her
seated with the kindest welcome among her new friends; but so great was
her agitation in finding herself as one of the family, and so fearful
was she of not doing exactly what was right, and of not being able to
preserve their good opinion, that, in the embarrassment of the first
five minutes, she could almost have wished to return with him to
Pulteney Street.

Miss Tilney's manners and Henry's smile soon did 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 reassure 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 tranquillity 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 placing her in a
very uncomfortable situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain
Tilney, without being able to hope for his goodwill.

He listened to his father in silence, and attempted not any defence,
which confirmed her in fearing that the inquietude of his mind, on
Isabella's account, might, by keeping him long sleepless, have been
the real cause of his rising late. It was the first time of her being
decidedly in his company, and she had hoped to be now able to form
her opinion of him; but she scarcely heard his voice while his father
remained in the room; and even 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 greatcoat, instead of being brought for him
to put on directly, was spread out in the curricle in which he was to
accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise was not drawn out,
though there were three people to go in it, and his daughter's maid had
so crowded it with parcels that Miss Morland would not have room to sit;
and, so much was he influenced by this apprehension when he handed her
in, that she had some difficulty in saving her own new writing-desk from
being thrown out into the street. At last, however, the door was closed
upon the three females, and they set off at the sober pace in which
the handsome, highly fed four horses of a 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 revived as
they drove from the door; for with Miss Tilney she felt no restraint;
and, with the interest of a road entirely new to 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
tediousness of a two hours' wait 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 fashionable chaise and four--postilions
handsomely liveried, rising so regularly in their stirrups, and
numerous outriders properly mounted, sunk a little under this consequent
inconvenience. Had their party been perfectly agreeable, the delay would
have been nothing; but General Tilney, though so charming a man, seemed
always a check upon his children's spirits, and scarcely 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 judgment; 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 troublesome business, and she could not easily forget
its having stopped two hours at Petty France. Half the time would
have been enough for the curricle, and so nimbly were the light horses
disposed 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 compare him with! And
then his hat sat so well, and the innumerable capes of his greatcoat
looked so becomingly important! To be driven by him, next to being
dancing with him, was certainly the greatest happiness in the world. In
addition to every other delight, she had now that of listening to her
own praise; of being thanked at least, on his sister's account, for
her kindness in thus becoming her visitor; of hearing it ranked as real
friendship, and described as creating real gratitude. His sister, he
said, was uncomfortably circumstanced--she had no female companion--and,
in the frequent absence of her father, was sometimes without any
companion at all.

"But how can that be?" said Catherine. "Are not you with her?"

"Northanger is not more than half my home; I have an establishment at
my own house in Woodston, which is nearly twenty miles from my father's,
and some of my time is necessarily spent there."

"How sorry you must be for that!"

"I am always sorry to leave Eleanor."

"Yes; but besides your affection for her, you must be so fond of
the abbey! After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary
parsonage-house must be very disagreeable."

He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very 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)
introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from
the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the
house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up
a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment
never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years
before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind
misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber--too lofty and
extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take
in its size--its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as
life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even
a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?"

"Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure."

"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And
what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers,
but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a
ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace
the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so
incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your
eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance,
gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints.
To raise your 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 curtsies 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 foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains--and during
the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think
you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging
more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your
curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly
arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine
this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in
the tapestry so artfully 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."

"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 anything 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 unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will
eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into
every drawer--but for some time without discovering 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 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 impatience for a sight
of the abbey--for some time suspended by his conversation on subjects
very different--returned in full force, and every bend in the road was
expected with solemn awe to afford a glimpse of its massy walls of grey
stone, rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last beams of the
sun playing in beautiful splendour on its high Gothic windows. But so
low did the building stand, that she found herself passing through the
great gates of the lodge into the very grounds of Northanger, without
having discerned even an antique chimney.

She knew not that she had any right to be 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 impossible 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
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 herself, or one moment's suspicion of any
past scenes of horror being acted within the solemn edifice. The breeze
had not seemed to waft the sighs of the murdered to her; it had wafted
nothing worse than a thick mizzling rain; and having given a good shake
to her habit, she was ready to be 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 anything within her
observation would have given her the consciousness. The furniture was in
all the profusion and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, 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 reverential care, were
yet less what her fancy had portrayed. To be sure, the pointed arch
was preserved--the form of them was Gothic--they might be even
casements--but every pane was so large, so clear, so light! To an
imagination which had hoped for the smallest divisions, and the heaviest
stone-work, for painted glass, dirt, and cobwebs, the difference was
very distressing.

The general, perceiving how her eye was employed, began to talk of the
smallness of the room and simplicity of the furniture, where everything,
being for daily use, pretended only to comfort, etc.; 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 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 21


A moment's glance was enough to satisfy Catherine that her apartment
was very unlike the one which Henry had endeavoured to alarm her by the
description of. It was by no means unreasonably large, and contained
neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were papered, the floor was
carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor more dim than those
of the drawing-room below; the furniture, though not of the latest
fashion, was handsome and comfortable, and the air of the room
altogether far from uncheerful. Her heart instantaneously at ease on
this point, she resolved to lose no time in particular examination of
anything, as she greatly dreaded disobliging the general by any delay.
Her habit therefore was thrown off with all possible haste, and she was
preparing to unpin the linen package, which the chaise-seat had conveyed
for her immediate accommodation, when her eye suddenly fell on a large
high chest, standing back in a deep recess on one side of the fireplace.
The sight of it made her start; and, forgetting everything else, she
stood gazing on it in motionless wonder, while these thoughts crossed
her:

"This is strange indeed! I did not expect such a sight as this! An
immense heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here?
Pushed back too, as if meant to be out of sight! I will look into
it--cost me what it may, I will look into it--and directly too--by
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 dared not waste a moment upon
a second attempt, she could not remain many paces from the chest. At
length, however, having slipped one arm into her gown, her toilette
seemed so nearly finished that the impatience of her curiosity might
safely be indulged. One moment surely might be spared; and, so desperate
should be the exertion of her strength, that, unless secured by
supernatural means, the lid in one moment should be thrown back. With
this spirit she sprang forward, and her confidence did not deceive her.
Her resolute effort threw back the lid, and gave to her astonished eyes
the view of a white cotton counterpane, properly folded, reposing at one
end of the chest in undisputed possession!

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 blushing, tying her
gown, and forming wise resolutions with the most violent dispatch. Miss
Tilney gently hinted her fear of being late; and in half a minute they
ran downstairs 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, concerned for his children, and
detesting old chests; and the general, recovering his politeness as he
looked at her, spent the rest of his time in scolding his daughter for
so foolishly hurrying her fair friend, who was 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 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 admiration; and the general, with a very gracious countenance,
acknowledged that it was by no means an ill-sized room, and further
confessed that, though as careless on such subjects as most people, he
did look upon a tolerably large eating-room as one of the necessaries
of life; he supposed, however, "that she must have been used to much
better-sized apartments at Mr. Allen's?"

"No, indeed," was Catherine's honest assurance; "Mr. Allen's
dining-parlour was not more than half as large," and she had never
seen so large a room as this in her life. The general's good humour
increased. Why, as he had such rooms, he thought it would be simple not
to make use of them; but, upon his honour, he believed there might be
more comfort in rooms of only half their size. Mr. Allen's house, he was
sure, must be exactly of the true size for rational happiness.

The evening passed without any further disturbance, and, in the
occasional absence of General Tilney, with much positive cheerfulness.
It was only in his presence that Catherine felt the smallest fatigue
from her journey; and even then, even in moments of languor or
restraint, a sense of general happiness preponderated, and she could
think of her friends in Bath without one wish of being with them.

The night was stormy; the wind had been rising at intervals the whole
afternoon; and by the time the party broke up, it blew and rained
violently. Catherine, as she crossed the hall, listened to the tempest
with sensations of awe; and, when she heard it rage round a corner of
the ancient building and close with sudden fury a distant door, felt
for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were
characteristic sounds; they brought to her recollection a countless
variety of dreadful situations and horrid scenes, which such buildings
had witnessed, and such storms ushered in; and most heartily did she
rejoice in the happier circumstances attending her entrance within walls
so solemn! She had nothing to dread from midnight assassins or drunken
gallants. Henry had certainly been only in jest in what he had told her
that morning. In a house so furnished, and so guarded, she could have
nothing to explore or to suffer, and might go to her bedroom as securely
as if it had been her own chamber at Fullerton. Thus wisely fortifying
her mind, as she proceeded upstairs, 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 stepped 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
therefore died away, and Catherine, having spent the best part of an
hour in her arrangements, was beginning to think of stepping into bed,
when, on giving a parting glance round the room, she was struck by the
appearance of a high, old-fashioned black cabinet, which, though in
a situation conspicuous enough, had never caught her notice before.
Henry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet which was to escape
her observation at first, immediately rushed across her; and though
there could be nothing really in it, there was something whimsical, it
was certainly a very remarkable 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 handsomest 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 wonder. 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 mysteriously closed
in her immediate vicinity. Again, therefore, she applied herself to the
key, and after moving it in every possible way for some instants with
the determined celerity of hope's last effort, the door suddenly yielded
to her hand: her heart leaped with exultation at such a victory, and
having 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; 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 difficulty occurring in the management of this inner lock as of
the outer; but at length it did open; and not vain, as hitherto, was her
search; her quick eyes directly fell on a roll of paper pushed back
into the further part of the cavity, apparently for concealment, and
her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart fluttered, her
knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized, with an unsteady
hand, the precious manuscript, for half a glance sufficed to ascertain
written characters; and while she acknowledged with awful sensations
this striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved
instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.

The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn 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 footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck
on her affrighted ear. Human nature could support no more. A cold sweat
stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping
her way to the bed, she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of
agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. To close her eyes in
sleep that night, she felt must be entirely out of the question. With
a curiosity so justly awakened, and feelings in every way so agitated,
repose must be absolutely impossible. The storm too abroad so dreadful!
She had not been used to feel alarm from wind, but now every blast
seemed fraught with awful intelligence. The manuscript so wonderfully
found, so wonderfully accomplishing the morning's prediction, how was it
to be accounted for? What could it contain? To whom could it relate?
By what means could it have been so long concealed? And how singularly
strange that it should fall to her lot to discover it! Till she had made
herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose
nor comfort; and with the sun's first rays she was determined to peruse
it. But many were the tedious hours which must yet intervene. She
shuddered, tossed about in her bed, and envied every quiet sleeper. The
storm still raged, and various were the noises, more terrific even
than the wind, which struck at intervals on her startled ear. The very
curtains of her bed seemed at one moment in motion, and at another
the lock of her door was agitated, as if by the attempt of somebody to
enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than
once her blood was chilled by the sound of distant moans. Hour after
hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed
by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided or she
unknowingly fell fast asleep.




CHAPTER 22


The housemaid's folding back her window-shutters at eight o'clock the
next day was the sound which first roused Catherine; and she opened her
eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed, on objects of
cheerfulness; her fire was already burning, and a bright morning
had succeeded the tempest of the night. Instantaneously, with the
consciousness of existence, returned her recollection of the manuscript;
and springing from the bed in the very moment of the maid's going away,
she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the
roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury
of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not
expect a 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 cabinet appeared so exactly to agree with his
description of her adventures, she should never have felt the smallest
curiosity about it. This was the only comfort that occurred. Impatient
to get rid of those hateful evidences of her folly, those detestable
papers then scattered over the bed, she rose directly, and folding them
up as nearly as possible in the same shape as before, returned them
to the same spot within the cabinet, with a very hearty wish that no
untoward accident might ever bring them forward again, to disgrace her
even with herself.

Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still
something remarkable, for she could now manage them with perfect ease.
In this there was surely something mysterious, and she indulged in the
flattering suggestion for half a minute, till the possibility of the
door's having been at first unlocked, and of being herself its fastener,
darted into her head, and cost her another blush.

She got away as soon as she could from a room in which her conduct
produced such unpleasant reflections, and found her way with all speed
to the breakfast-parlour, 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 reference
to the character of the building they inhabited, was rather distressing.
For the world would she not have her weakness suspected, and yet,
unequal to an absolute falsehood, was constrained to acknowledge that
the wind had kept her awake a little. "But we have a charming morning
after it," she added, desiring to get rid of the subject; "and storms
and sleeplessness are nothing when they are over. What beautiful
hyacinths! I have just learnt to love a hyacinth."

"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 for flowers is always desirable in your
sex, as a means of getting you out of doors, and tempting you to more
frequent exercise than you would otherwise take. And though the love
of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once
raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?"

"But I do not want any such pursuit to get me out of doors. The pleasure
of walking and breathing fresh air is enough for me, and in fine weather
I am out more than half my time. Mamma says I am never within."

"At any rate, however, I am pleased that you have learnt to love
a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a
teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing. Has my
sister a pleasant mode of instruction?"

Catherine was saved the embarrassment of attempting an answer by the
entrance of the general, whose smiling compliments announced a happy
state of mind, but whose gentle hint of sympathetic early rising did not
advance her composure.

The elegance of the breakfast set forced itself on Catherine's notice
when they were seated at table; and, luckily, it had been the general's
choice. He was enchanted by her approbation of his taste, confessed it
to be neat and simple, thought it right to encourage the manufacture of
his country; and for his part, to his uncritical palate, the tea was as
well flavoured from the clay of Staffordshire, as from that of Dresden
or Save. 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, 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 today."

"Is it a pretty place?" asked Catherine.

"What say you, Eleanor? Speak your opinion, for ladies can best tell the
taste of ladies in regard to places as well as men. I think it would be
acknowledged by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The
house stands among fine meadows facing the south-east, with an excellent
kitchen-garden in the same aspect; the walls surrounding which I built
and stocked myself about ten years ago, for the benefit of my son. It
is a family living, Miss Morland; and the property in the place being
chiefly my own, you may believe I take care that it shall not be a bad
one. Did Henry's income depend solely on this living, he would not be
ill-provided for. Perhaps it may seem odd, that with only two younger
children, I should think any profession necessary for him; and certainly
there are moments when we could all wish him disengaged from every tie
of business. But though I may not exactly make converts of you young
ladies, I am sure your father, Miss Morland, would agree with me in
thinking it expedient to give every young man some employment. The
money is nothing, it is not an object, but employment is the thing.
Even Frederick, my eldest son, you see, who will perhaps inherit as
considerable a landed property as any private man in the county, has his
profession."

The imposing effect of this last argument was equal to his wishes. The
silence of the lady proved it to be unanswerable.

Something had been said the evening before of her being 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 haste, and she was ready
to attend him in a moment. "And when they had gone over the house, he
promised himself moreover the pleasure of accompanying her into the
shrubberies and garden." She curtsied her acquiescence. "But perhaps
it might be more agreeable to her to make those her first object.
The weather was at present favourable, and at this time of year the
uncertainty was very great of its continuing so. Which would she prefer?
He was equally at her service. Which did his daughter think would most
accord with her fair friend's wishes? But he thought he could discern.
Yes, he certainly read in Miss Morland's eyes a judicious desire of
making use of the present smiling weather. But when did she judge amiss?
The abbey would be always safe and dry. He yielded implicitly, and
would fetch his hat and attend them in a moment." He left the room,
and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of her
unwillingness that he should be taking them out of doors against his own
inclination, under a mistaken idea of pleasing her; but she was 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 understood. 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 by knolls of old trees, or luxuriant plantations, and the steep
woody hills rising behind, to give it shelter, were beautiful even in
the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing to compare with
it; and her feelings of delight were so strong, that without waiting for
any better authority, she boldly burst forth 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 church-yard and orchard.
The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of
hot-houses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at
work within the 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 vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The
utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery
had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr. Allen, he supposed,
must feel these inconveniences as well as himself."

"No, not at all. Mr. Allen did not care about the garden, and never went
into it."

With a triumphant smile of self-satisfaction, the general wished he
could do the same, for he never entered his, without being vexed in some
way or other, by its falling short of his plan.

"How were Mr. Allen's succession-houses worked?" describing the nature
of his own as they entered them.

"Mr. Allen had only one small hot-house, which Mrs. Allen had the use of
for her plants in winter, and there was a fire in it now and then."

"He is a happy man!" said the general, with a look of very happy
contempt.

Having taken her into every division, and led her under every wall, till
she was heartily weary of seeing and wondering, he suffered the girls
at last to seize the advantage of an outer door, and then expressing
his wish to examine the effect of some recent alterations about the
tea-house, proposed it as no unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss
Morland were not tired. "But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you
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 perhaps it may be damp."

It was a narrow winding path through a thick grove of old Scotch firs;
and Catherine, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it,
could not, even by the general's disapprobation, be kept from stepping
forward. He perceived her inclination, and having again urged the plea
of health in vain, was too polite to make further opposition. He excused
himself, however, from attending them: "The rays of the sun were not too
cheerful for him, and he would meet them by another course." He turned
away; and Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were
relieved by the separation. The shock, however, being less real than the
relief, offered it no injury; and she began to talk with easy gaiety of
the delightful melancholy which such a grove inspired.

"I am particularly fond of this spot," said her 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 remembrance showed itself
directly in her altered countenance, and in the attentive pause with
which she waited for something more.

"I used to walk here so often with her!" added Eleanor; "though I never
loved it then, as I have loved it since. At that time indeed I used to
wonder at her choice. But her memory endears it now."

"And ought it not," reflected Catherine, "to endear it to her husband?
Yet the general would not enter it." Miss Tilney continuing silent, she
ventured to say, "Her death must have been a great affliction!"

"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 firmness, "I have no sister, you know--and though Henry--though my
brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is a great deal here, which I
am most thankful for, it is impossible for me not to be often solitary."

"To be sure you must miss him very much."

"A mother would have been always present. A mother would have been a
constant friend; her influence would have been beyond all other."

"Was she a very charming woman? Was she 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
bed-chamber--where I shall be happy to show it you; it is very like."
Here was another proof. A portrait--very like--of a departed wife, not
valued by the husband! He must have been dreadfully cruel to her!

Catherine attempted no longer to hide from herself the nature of the
feelings which, in spite of all his attentions, he had previously
excited; and what had been terror and dislike before, was now absolute
aversion. Yes, aversion! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him
odious to her. She had often read of such characters, characters which
Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was
proof positive of the contrary.

She had just settled this point when the end of the path brought them
directly upon the general; and in spite of all her virtuous indignation,
she found herself again obliged to walk with him, listen to him, and
even to smile when he smiled. Being no longer able, however, to receive
pleasure from the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with
lassitude; the general perceived it, and with a concern for her health,
which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, was most urgent
for returning with his daughter to the house. He would follow them in
a quarter of an hour. Again they parted--but Eleanor was called back in
half a minute to receive a strict charge against taking her friend round
the abbey till his return. This second instance of his anxiety to delay
what she so much wished for struck Catherine as very remarkable.




CHAPTER 23


An hour passed away before the general came in, spent, on the part of
his young guest, in no very favourable consideration of his character.
"This lengthened absence, these solitary rambles, did not speak a mind
at ease, or a conscience void of reproach." At length he appeared; and,
whatever might have been the gloom of his 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, 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 antechamber, into a room magnificent both
in size and furniture--the real drawing-room, used only with company of
consequence. It was very noble--very grand--very charming!--was all that
Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminating eye scarcely discerned
the colour of the satin; and all minuteness of praise, all praise
that had much meaning, was supplied by the general: the costliness or
elegance of any room's fitting-up could be nothing to her; she cared for
no furniture of a more modern date than the fifteenth century. When the
general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of every
well-known ornament, they 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 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 greatcoats.

From the dining-room, of which, though already seen, and always to be
seen at five o'clock, the general could not forgo the pleasure of pacing
out the length, for the more certain information of Miss Morland, as
to what she neither doubted nor cared for, they proceeded by quick
communication to the kitchen--the ancient kitchen of the convent, rich
in the massy walls and smoke of former days, and in the stoves and hot
closets of the present. The general's improving hand had not loitered
here: every modern invention to facilitate the labour of the cooks had
been adopted within this, their spacious theatre; and, when the genius
of others had failed, his own had often produced the perfection wanted.
His endowments of this spot alone might at any time have placed him high
among the benefactors of the convent.

With the walls of the kitchen ended all the antiquity of the abbey; the
fourth side of the quadrangle having, on account of its decaying state,
been removed by the general's father, and the present erected in its
place. All that was venerable ceased here. The new building was not
only new, but declared itself to be so; intended only for offices, and
enclosed behind by stable-yards, no uniformity of architecture had been
thought necessary. Catherine could have raved at the hand which had
swept away what must have been beyond the value of all the rest, for the
purposes of mere domestic economy; and would willingly have been spared
the mortification of a walk through scenes so fallen, had the general
allowed it; but if he had a vanity, it was in the arrangement of his
offices; and as he was convinced that, to a mind like Miss Morland's,
a view of the accommodations and comforts, by which the labours of her
inferiors were softened, must always be gratifying, he should make
no apology for leading her on. They took a slight survey of all; and
Catherine was impressed, beyond her expectation, by their multiplicity
and their convenience. The purposes for which a few shapeless pantries
and a comfortless scullery were deemed sufficient at Fullerton, were
here carried on in appropriate divisions, commodious and roomy. The
number of servants continually appearing did not strike her less than
the number of their offices. Wherever they went, some pattened girl
stopped to curtsy, or some footman in dishabille sneaked off. Yet this
was an abbey! How inexpressibly different in these domestic arrangements
from such as she had read about--from 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 bed-chambers, 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 Fullerton." She felt
the unexpected compliment, and deeply regretted the impossibility of
thinking well of a man so kindly disposed towards herself, and so full
of civility to all her family.

The gallery was terminated by folding doors, which Miss Tilney,
advancing, had thrown open, and passed through, and seemed on the point
of doing the same by the first door to the left, in another long reach
of gallery, when the general, coming forwards, called her hastily, and,
as Catherine thought, rather angrily back, demanding whether 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 concealed; 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 downstairs, seemed to point out:
"I was going to take you into what was my mother's room--the room
in which she died--" were all her words; but few as they were, they
conveyed pages of intelligence to Catherine. It was no wonder that the
general should shrink from the sight of such objects as that room
must contain; a room in all probability never entered by him since the
dreadful scene had passed, which released his suffering wife, and left
him to the stings of conscience.

She ventured, when next alone with Eleanor, to express her wish of being
permitted to see it, as well as all the rest of that side of the house;
and Eleanor promised to attend her there, whenever they should have a
convenient hour. Catherine understood her: the general must be watched
from home, before that room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I
suppose?" said she, in a tone of feeling.

"Yes, entirely."

"And how long ago may it be that your mother died?"

"She has been dead these nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew,
was a trifle of time, compared with what generally elapsed after the
death of an injured wife, before her room was put to rights.

"You were with her, I suppose, to the last?"

"No," said Miss Tilney, sighing; "I was unfortunately from home. Her
illness was sudden and short; and, before I arrived it was all over."

Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions which naturally
sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father--?
And yet how many were 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 observation which sent his daughter to the bell.
When the butler would have lit his master's candle, however, he was
forbidden. The latter was not going to retire. "I have many pamphlets to
finish," said he to Catherine, "before I can close my eyes, and perhaps
may be poring over the affairs of the nation for hours after you are
asleep. Can either of us be more meetly employed? My eyes will be
blinding for the good of others, and yours preparing by rest for future
mischief."

But neither the business alleged, nor the magnificent compliment,
could win Catherine from thinking that some very different object must
occasion so serious a delay of proper repose. To be kept up for hours,
after the family were in bed, by stupid pamphlets was not very likely.
There must be some deeper cause: something was to be done which could
be done only while the household slept; and the probability 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 suddenly 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 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 convinced her that the servants must still be
up. Till midnight, she supposed it would be in vain to watch; but then,
when the clock had struck twelve, and all was quiet, she would, if not
quite appalled by darkness, steal out and look once more. The clock
struck twelve--and Catherine had been half an hour asleep.




CHAPTER 24


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 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 bed-chamber. 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, hair, complexion, that should be the very counterpart,
the very image, if not of Henry's, of Eleanor's--the only portraits of
which she had been in the habit of thinking, bearing always an equal
resemblance of mother and child. A face once taken was taken for
generations. But here she was obliged to look and consider and study
for a likeness. She contemplated it, however, in spite of this drawback,
with much emotion, and, but for a yet stronger interest, would have left
it unwillingly.

Her agitation as they entered the great gallery was too much for any
endeavour at discourse; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor's
countenance was dejected, yet sedate; and its composure spoke her 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 intimation of his presence,
and to Catherine terror upon terror. An attempt at concealment had been
her first instinctive movement on perceiving him, yet she could
scarcely hope to have escaped his eye; and when her friend, who with an
apologizing look darted hastily by her, had joined and disappeared
with him, she ran for safety to her own room, and, locking herself
in, believed that she should never have courage to go down again. She
remained there at least an hour, in the greatest agitation, deeply
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 visitors. The breakfast-room was gay with company; and
she was named to them by the general as the friend of his daughter, in
a complimentary style, which so well concealed his resentful ire, as to
make her feel secure at least of life for the present. And Eleanor,
with a command of countenance which did honour to her concern for his
character, taking an early occasion of saying to her, "My father only
wanted me to answer a note," she began to hope that she had either been
unseen by the general, or that from some consideration of policy she
should be allowed to suppose herself so. Upon this trust she dared still
to remain in his presence, after the company left them, and nothing
occurred to disturb it.

In the course of this morning's reflections, she came to a resolution
of making her next attempt on the forbidden door alone. It would be much
better in every respect that Eleanor should know nothing of the matter.
To involve her in the danger of a second detection, to court her into
an apartment which must wring her heart, could not be the office of a
friend. The general's utmost anger could not be to herself what it might
be to a daughter; and, besides, she thought the examination itself
would be more satisfactory if made without any companion. It would be
impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicions, from which the other
had, in all likelihood, been hitherto happily exempt; nor could she
therefore, in her presence, search for those proofs of the general's
cruelty, which however they might yet have escaped discovery, she felt
confident of somewhere drawing forth, in the shape of some fragmented
journal, continued to the last gasp. Of the way to the apartment she was
now perfectly mistress; and as she wished to get it over before Henry's
return, who was expected on the morrow, there was no time to be lost.
The day was bright, her courage high; at four o'clock, the sun was now
two hours above the horizon, and it would be only her retiring to dress
half an hour earlier than usual.

It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the
clocks had ceased to strike. It was no time for thought; she hurried
on, slipped with the least possible noise through the folding doors,
and without stopping to look or breathe, rushed forward to the one in
question. The lock yielded to her hand, and, luckily, with no sullen
sound that could alarm a human being. On 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.
She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, an handsome dimity bed,
arranged as unoccupied with an 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
expected to have her feelings worked, and worked they were. Astonishment
and doubt first seized them; and a shortly succeeding ray of common
sense added some bitter emotions of shame. She could not be mistaken
as to the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything 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
inclination to open either. Would the veil in which Mrs. Tilney had last
walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what
nothing else was allowed to whisper? No: whatever might have been the
general's crimes, he had certainly too much wit to let them sue for
detection. She was sick of exploring, and desired but to be safe in her
own room, with her own heart only privy to its folly; and she was on
the point of retreating as softly as she had entered, when the sound of
footsteps, she could hardly tell where, made her pause and tremble.
To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but by the
general (and he seemed always at hand when least wanted), much worse!
She listened--the sound had ceased; and resolving not to lose a
moment, she passed through and closed the door. At that instant a door
underneath was hastily opened; someone 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 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 anything extraordinary to be seen there?"

"No, nothing at all. I thought you did not mean to come back till
tomorrow."

"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 regarding her. "Have you
looked into all the rooms in that passage?"

"No, I only wanted to see--Is not it very late? I must go and dress."

"It is only a quarter past four" 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 herself 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 and pain you. My mother's room is very commodious, is it not?
Large and cheerful-looking, and the dressing-closets so well disposed!
It always strikes me as the most comfortable apartment in the house, and
I rather wonder that Eleanor should not take it for her own. She sent
you to look at it, I suppose?"

"No."

"It has been your own doing entirely?" Catherine said nothing. After a
short silence, during which he had closely observed her, he added, "As
there is nothing in the room in itself to raise curiosity, this must
have 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. During the progress of her disorder, Frederick and I
(we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation
can bear witness to her having received every possible attention
which could spring from the affection of those about her, or which her
situation in life could command. Poor Eleanor was absent, and at such a
distance as to return only to see her mother in her coffin."

"But your father," said Catherine, "was he afflicted?"

"For a time, greatly so. You have erred in supposing him not attached
to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him
to--we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition--and
I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have
had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never
did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly
afflicted by her death."

"I am very glad of it," said Catherine; "it would have been very
shocking!"

"If I understand you rightly, you had formed a surmise of such horror as
I have hardly words to--Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature
of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?
Remember the country and the age in which we live. Remember that we are
English, that we are Christians. Consult your own understanding, your
own sense of the probable, your own observation of what is passing
around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our
laws connive at them? Could they be perpetrated without being known, in
a country like this, where social and literary intercourse is on such a
footing, where every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary
spies, and where roads and newspapers lay everything 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.




CHAPTER 25


The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their 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 forever. 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 inquiry 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 soothing politeness; and
her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not
learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that
it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's
entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had
with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be
clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,
each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination
resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by
a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be
frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,
the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if
the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which
she had there indulged.

Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were
the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human
nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked
for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,
they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and
the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there
represented. 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, perhaps,
there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as
an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was
not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,
there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this
conviction, she would not be 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 perfectly amiable.

Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she
had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and
the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness
of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,
under which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a
chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of
japan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento
of past folly, however painful, might not be without use.

The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.
She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her
only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had
protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs.
Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
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 became more severe: but, on
the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
letter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
as 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 everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and
me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall
not enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon
hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I
hope will acquit your brother of everything 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 forever! Let me
soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love
I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before
Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his
honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father.
Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned
with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and
laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;
but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I
cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no
need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted
at last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never
expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you
give your heart.

"Believe me," &c.


Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing 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 anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she
sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in
her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general,
between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing
her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon
as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the
housemaids 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, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter
again!"

"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; "if I
had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have
given it with very different feelings."

"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is
so unhappy! You will soon know why."

"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister," replied Henry
warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress."

"I have one favour to beg," said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be coming here, you will
give me notice of it, that I may go away."

"Our brother! Frederick!"

"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
the same house with Captain Tilney."

Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
which Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.

"How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you have guessed it, I declare!
And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its
ending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella
has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed
there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is
bad in the world?"

"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. 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
anyone 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 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 surprise, began to inquire
into Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune.

"Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was Catherine's answer.

"What was her father?"

"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."

"Are they a wealthy family?"

"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but
that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!
He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to
promote the happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked
at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to
promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be
an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how
strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,
is violating an 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 declarations, I give him up.
Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to
suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other
was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased
man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,
and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,
guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
and knowing no disguise."

"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said Eleanor with a
smile.

"But perhaps," observed Catherine, "though she has behaved so ill by our
family, she may behave better by 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."

"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first
knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed
that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone'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 recover 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, on whose regard
you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could
rely on. You feel all this?"

"No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, "I do not--ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
thought."

"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.
Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves."

Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much
relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had
produced it.




CHAPTER 26


From this time, the subject was frequently canvassed by the three young
people; and Catherine found, with some surprise, 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
property had not grandeur and wealth enough in himself, at what point
of interest were the demands of his younger brother to rest? The very
painful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispersed by
a dependence on the effect of that 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 disinterested sentiments on the
subject of money, which she had more than once heard him utter, and
which tempted her to think his disposition in such matters misunderstood
by his children.

They were so fully convinced, however, that their brother would not
have the courage to apply in person for his father's consent, and so
repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to
come to Northanger than at the present time, that she suffered her mind
to be at ease as to the necessity of any sudden removal of her own. But
as it was not to be supposed that Captain Tilney, whenever he made his
application, would give his father any just idea of Isabella's conduct,
it occurred to her as highly expedient that Henry should lay the whole
business before him as it really was, enabling the general by that means
to form a cool and impartial opinion, and prepare his objections on
a fairer ground than inequality of situations. She proposed it to him
accordingly; but he did not catch at the measure so eagerly as she had
expected. "No," said he, "my father's hands need not be strengthened,
and Frederick's confession of folly need not be forestalled. He must
tell his own story."

"But he will tell only half of it."

"A quarter would be enough."

A day or two passed away and brought no tidings of Captain Tilney. His
brother and sister knew not what to think. Sometimes it appeared to
them as if his silence would be the natural result of the suspected
engagement, and at others that it was wholly incompatible with it.
The general, meanwhile, though offended every morning by Frederick's
remissness in writing, was free from any real anxiety about him, and had
no more pressing solicitude than that of making Miss Morland's time at
Northanger pass pleasantly. He often expressed his uneasiness on this
head, feared the sameness of every day's society and employments would
disgust her with the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the
country, talked every now and then of having a large party to dinner,
and once or twice began even to calculate the number of young dancing
people in the 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 telling Henry one morning that when he
next went to Woodston, 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 yourself at all out of your way.
Whatever you may happen to have in the house will be enough. I think I
can answer for the young ladies making allowance for a bachelor's table.
Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on
Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I expect my surveyor
from Brockham with his report in the morning; and afterwards I cannot in
decency fail attending the club. I really could not face my acquaintance
if I stayed away now; for, as I am known to be in the country, it would
be taken exceedingly amiss; and it is a rule with me, Miss Morland,
never to give offence to any of my neighbours, if a small sacrifice of
time and attention can prevent it. They are a set of very worthy men.
They have half a buck from Northanger twice a year; and I dine with them
whenever I can. Tuesday, therefore, we may say is out of the question.
But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you may expect us; and we shall be
with you early, that we may have time to look about us. Two hours and
three quarters will carry us to Woodston, I suppose; we shall be in the
carriage by ten; so, about a quarter before one on Wednesday, you may
look for us."

A ball itself could not have been more welcome to Catherine than
this little excursion, so strong was her desire to be acquainted with
Woodston; and her heart was still bounding with joy when Henry, about an
hour afterwards, came booted and greatcoated 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."

"Oh! Not seriously!"

"Aye, and sadly too--for I had much rather stay."

"But how can you think of such a thing, after what the general said?
When he so particularly desired you not to give yourself any trouble,
because anything 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-bye. As
tomorrow 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 Isabella so great; and Eleanor's
spirits always affected by Henry's absence! What was there to interest
or amuse her? She was tired of the woods and the 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
consideration of the building. What a revolution in her ideas! She, who
had so longed to be in an abbey! Now, there was nothing so charming
to her imagination as the unpretending comfort of a well-connected
parsonage, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had its
faults, but Woodston probably had none. If Wednesday should ever come!

It did come, and exactly when it might be reasonably looked for. It
came--it was fine--and Catherine trod on air. By ten o'clock, the chaise
and four conveyed the trio from the abbey; and, after an agreeable drive
of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous
village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say
how pretty she thought it, as the general seemed to think an apology
necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village;
but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever been at,
and looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of
a cottage, and at all the little chandler's shops which they passed. At
the further end of the village, and tolerably disengaged from the rest
of it, stood the parsonage, a new-built substantial stone house, with
its 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 disappointed him.

"We are not calling it a good house," said he. "We are not comparing
it with Fullerton and Northanger--we are considering it as a mere
parsonage, small and confined, we allow, but decent, perhaps, and
habitable; and altogether not inferior to the generality; or, in other
words, I believe there are few country parsonages in England half so
good. It may admit of improvement, however. Far be it from me to say
otherwise; and anything in reason--a bow thrown out, perhaps--though,
between ourselves, if there is one thing more than another my aversion,
it is a patched-on bow."

Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be pained
by it; and other subjects being studiously brought forward and supported
by Henry, at the same time that a tray full of refreshments was
introduced by his servant, the general was shortly restored to his
complacency, and Catherine to all her usual ease of spirits.

The room in question was of a commodious, well-proportioned size, and
handsomely fitted up as a dining-parlour; and on their quitting it to
walk round the grounds, she was 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 anywhere 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 embarrassing associations; and, having reached the ornamental part
of the premises, consisting of a walk round two sides of a meadow, on
which Henry's genius had begun to act about half a year ago, she was
sufficiently recovered to think it prettier than any pleasure-ground she
had ever been in before, though there was not a shrub in it higher than
the green bench in the corner.

A saunter into other meadows, and through part of the village, with a
visit to the stables to examine some improvements, and a charming game
of play with a litter of puppies just able to roll about, brought them
to four o'clock, when Catherine scarcely thought it could be three. At
four they were to dine, and at six to set off on their return. Never had
any day passed so quickly!

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 expectations, 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 27


The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from
Isabella:


Bath, April

My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest
delight, and have a thousand apologies to make for not answering them
sooner. I really am quite ashamed of my idleness; but in this horrid
place one can find time for nothing. I have had my pen in my hand to
begin a letter to you almost every day since you left Bath, but have
always been prevented by some silly trifler or other. Pray write to me
soon, and direct to my own home. Thank God, we leave this vile place
tomorrow. Since you went away, I have had no pleasure in it--the dust
is beyond anything; and everybody one cares for is gone. I believe if I
could see you I should not mind the rest, for you are dearer to me than
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 afterwards; but I would not have
followed him for all the world. Such a contrast between him and your
brother! Pray send me some news of the latter--I am quite unhappy about
him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he went away, with a cold, or
something that affected his spirits. I would write to him myself, but
have mislaid his direction; and, as I hinted above, am afraid he
took something in my conduct amiss. Pray explain everything 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, for a frolic, at half price: they teased
me into it; and I was determined they should not say I shut myself up
because Tilney was gone. We happened to sit by the Mitchells, and they
pretended to be quite 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 Mitchell had tried to put on a
turban like mine, as I wore it the week before at the concert, but made
wretched work of it--it happened to become my odd face, I believe, at
least Tilney told me so at the time, and said every eye was upon me; but
he is the last man whose word I would take. I wear nothing but purple
now: I know I look hideous in it, but no matter--it is your dear
brother's favourite colour. Lose no time, my dearest, sweetest
Catherine, in writing to him and to me, Who ever am, etc.


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 had finished it--"So much for Isabella," she
cried, "and for all our intimacy! She must think me an idiot, or she
could not have written so; but perhaps this has served to make her
character better known to me than mine is to her. I see what she has
been about. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I
do not believe she had ever any regard either for James or for me, and I
wish I had never known her."

"It will soon be as if you never had," said Henry.

"There is but one thing that I cannot understand. I see that she has
had designs on Captain Tilney, which have not succeeded; but I do not
understand what Captain Tilney has been about all this time. Why should
he pay her such attentions as to make her quarrel with my brother, and
then fly off himself?"

"I have very little to say for Frederick's motives, such as I believe
them to have been. He has his vanities as well as Miss Thorpe, and the
chief difference is, that, having 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, because I do not think Isabella has any
heart to lose. But, suppose he had made her very much in love with him?"

"But we must first suppose Isabella to have had a heart to
lose--consequently to have been a very different creature; and, in that
case, she would have met with very different treatment."

"It is very right that you should stand by your brother."

"And if you would stand by 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
reasonings of family partiality, or a desire of revenge."

Catherine was complimented out of further bitterness. Frederick could
not be unpardonably guilty, while Henry made himself so agreeable. She
resolved on not answering Isabella's letter, and tried to think no more
of it.




CHAPTER 28


Soon after this, the general found himself obliged to go to London for
a week; and he left Northanger earnestly regretting that any necessity
should rob him even for an hour of Miss Morland's company, and anxiously
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 sometimes 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
stayed 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 something very different, to start forth her
obligation of going away very soon. Eleanor looked and declared herself
much concerned. She had "hoped for the pleasure of her company for a
much longer time--had been misled (perhaps by her wishes) to suppose
that a much longer visit had been promised--and could not but think that
if Mr. and Mrs. Morland were aware of the pleasure it was to her to have
her there, they would be too generous to hasten her return." Catherine
explained: "Oh! As to 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 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 impression his conduct had given her, and
the persuasion of his being by far too fine a gentleman to approve of
her, that at least they should not meet under such circumstances as
would make their meeting 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 someone 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 anyone's approaching so cautiously; but resolving not to be again
overcome by trivial appearances of alarm, or misled by a raised
imagination, she stepped quietly forward, and opened the door. Eleanor,
and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's spirits, however, were
tranquillized but for an instant, for Eleanor's cheeks were pale, and
her manner greatly agitated. Though evidently intending to come in, it
seemed an effort to enter the room, and a still greater to speak when
there. Catherine, supposing some 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 anything 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
continuing here as I hoped for many, many weeks longer, how can I tell
you that your kindness is not to be accepted--and that the happiness
your company has hitherto given us is to be repaid by--But I must not
trust myself with words. My dear Catherine, we are to part. My father
has recollected an engagement that takes our whole family away on
Monday. We are going to Lord Longtown's, near Hereford, for a fortnight.
Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I 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. Can
you, when you return from this lord's, come to Fullerton?"

"It will not be in my power, Catherine."

"Come when you can, then."

Eleanor made no answer; and Catherine's thoughts recurring to something
more directly interesting, she added, thinking aloud, "Monday--so soon
as Monday; and you all go. Well, I am certain of--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 somewhat less
intolerable, though in such common attentions you would have received
but half what you ought. But--how can I tell you?--tomorrow 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 displeasure, 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
anything in extenuation! Good God! What will your father and mother say!
After courting you from the protection of real friends to this--almost
double distance from your home, to have you driven out of the house,
without the considerations even of decent civility! Dear, dear
Catherine, in being the bearer of such a message, I seem guilty myself
of all its insult; yet, I trust you will acquit me, for you must have
been long enough in this house to see that I am but a nominal mistress
of it, that my real power is nothing."

"Have I offended the general?" said Catherine in a faltering voice.

"Alas! For my feelings as a daughter, all that I know, all that I
answer for, is that you can have given him no just cause of offence. He
certainly is greatly, very greatly discomposed; I have seldom seen him
more so. His temper is not happy, and something has now occurred to
ruffle it in an uncommon degree; some disappointment, some vexation,
which just at this moment seems 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 everything 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, unattended!"

"Oh, the journey is nothing. Do not think about that. And if we are to
part, a few hours sooner or later, you know, makes no difference. I
can be ready by seven. Let me be called in time." Eleanor saw that she
wished to be alone; and believing it better for each that they should
avoid any further conversation, now left her with, "I shall see you in
the morning."

Catherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence
friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was
she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and
in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that
could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of
it. Henry at a distance--not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope,
every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how
long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such
a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore
so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was
mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would
end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in
which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any
reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance
of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the
earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved
to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he
might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but
an intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the
misfortune to offend him. Eleanor had wished to spare her from so
painful a notion, but Catherine could not believe it possible that any
injury or any misfortune could provoke such ill will against a person
not connected, 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 mournfully
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 natural evil, the solitude of her situation,
the darkness of her chamber, the antiquity of the building, were felt
and considered without the smallest emotion; and though the wind was
high, and often produced strange and sudden noises throughout the house,
she heard it all as she lay awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or
terror.

Soon after six Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or give
assistance where it was possible; but very little remained to be done.
Catherine had not loitered; she was almost dressed, and her packing
almost finished. The possibility of some conciliatory message from the
general occurred to her as his daughter appeared. What so natural, as
that anger should pass away and repentance succeed it? And she only
wanted to know how far, after what had passed, an apology might properly
be received by her. But the knowledge would have been useless here;
it was not called for; neither clemency nor dignity was put to the
trial--Eleanor brought no message. Very little passed between them on
meeting; each found her greatest safety in silence, and few and trivial
were the sentences exchanged while they remained upstairs, Catherine in
busy agitation completing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than
experience intent upon filling the trunk. When everything 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 breakfast
in that room gave her fresh misery, and strengthened her distaste for
everything 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 everything 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 herself; and the
appearance of the carriage was the first thing to startle and recall
them to the present moment. Catherine's colour rose at the sight of it;
and the indignity with which she was treated, striking at that instant
on her mind with peculiar force, made her for a short time sensible only
of resentment. Eleanor seemed now impelled into resolution and speech.

"You must write to me, Catherine," she cried; "you must let me hear from
you as soon as possible. Till I know you to be safe at home, I shall
not have an hour's comfort. For one letter, at all risks, all hazards, I
must entreat. Let me have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe
at Fullerton, and have found your family well, and then, till I can ask
for your correspondence as I ought to do, I will not expect more. Direct
to me at Lord Longtown's, and, I must ask it, under cover to Alice."

"No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I am
sure I had better not write. There can be no doubt of my getting home
safe."

Eleanor only replied, "I cannot wonder at your feelings. 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 convinced that but for
this kindness of her friend, she might have been turned from the house
without even the means of getting home; and the distress in which she
must have been thereby involved filling the minds of both, scarcely
another word was said by either during the time of their remaining
together. Short, however, was that time. The carriage was soon announced
to be ready; and Catherine, instantly rising, a long and affectionate
embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and,
as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention
of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a
moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left
"her kind 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.




CHAPTER 29


Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or
feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in
a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls
of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground
within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable
of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed
along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every
bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on
which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when
within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and
thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation
were excessive.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made
use of such 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 could not wonder at any degree of his
indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could
not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification
so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.

Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however,
the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more
prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel,
and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of
her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every
other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it
sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others
was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To
the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor--what
might he not say to Eleanor about her?

In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article
of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours
passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for.
The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing
anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston,
saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no
object on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found no stage
of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by
feeling no eagerness for her journey's 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' absence. 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 undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice
to Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too strongly for expression;
and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of
unfavourably, on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.

With these feelings, she rather dreaded than sought for the first view
of that well-known spire which would announce her within twenty miles of
home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but
after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the
names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great
had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however,
to distress or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal
pay procured her all the attention that a traveller like herself could
require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for
about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven
o'clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.

A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village,
in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of
a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several
phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four,
behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver may well
delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author
must share in the glory she so liberally bestows. But my affair is
widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude and
disgrace; and no sweet elation of spirits can lead me into minuteness.
A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no
attempt at grandeur or pathos can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her
post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and
speedy shall be her descent from it.

But, 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 everyday
nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her
carriage--and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being
a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the
window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten
every eye and occupy every fancy--a pleasure quite unlooked for by all
but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old,
who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance
that first 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 Catherine's heart; and in the embrace of each, as
she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed beyond anything
that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even
happy! In the joyfulness of family love everything for a short time was
subdued, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little
leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table,
which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller,
whose pale and jaded looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry so
direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.

Reluctantly, and with much hesitation, did she then begin what might
perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her
hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they
at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden
return. They were far from being an irritable race; far from any
quickness in catching, or bitterness in resenting, affronts: but here,
when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor,
for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any
romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter's long and lonely
journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been
productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could
never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such
a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably nor
feelingly--neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it,
what could have provoked him to such a breach of hospitality, and so
suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual
ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining
as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long;
and, after a due course of useless 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, exclaiming and conjecturing with youthful
ardour. "My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,"
said her mother at last; "depend upon it, it is something not at all
worth understanding."

"I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected this
engagement," said Sarah, "but why not do it civilly?"

"I am sorry for the young people," returned Mrs. Morland; "they must
have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now;
Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General
Tilney." Catherine sighed. "Well," continued her philosophic mother, "I
am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all
over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for
young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear
Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-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 anything behind you in any of the pockets."

Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own
amendment, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and
alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's
next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in
her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence of mortified
feelings, and of the unusual exertion and fatigue of such a journey,
parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and
though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal
to their hopes, they were still perfectly unsuspicious of there being
any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the
parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first
excursion from home, was odd enough!

As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to
Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her
friend's disposition was already justified, for already did Catherine
reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with
having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough
commiserated her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The
strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen;
and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor
Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her
sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude without servile regret,
be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment--a letter
which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal of--and, above all,
which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an
undertaking to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after
long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she
could determine on with any confidence 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 consolation. The hope
of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into
Catherine's head what might happen within that time to make a meeting
dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him
with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget
her; and in that case, to meet--! Her eyes filled with tears as she
pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her
comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another
expedient for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs.
Allen.

The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked,
Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of
James's disappointment. "We are sorry for him," said she; "but otherwise
there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be
a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the
smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely without fortune; and
now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at
present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and
I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness
of his first choice."

This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could
listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance,
and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers
swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits
since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months
ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards
and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and
independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and
free from the apprehension of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three
months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she
return!

She was received by the 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 evening," said she. "She
travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till
Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all
of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out
of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd
man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great
comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift
very well for herself."

Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable
resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions
quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His
wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers,
with the addition of this single remark--"I really have not patience
with the general"--to fill up every accidental pause. And, "I really
have not patience with the general," was uttered twice after Mr.
Allen left the room, without any relaxation of anger, or any material
digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended
the third repetition; and, after 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 being there was such a comfort to us,
was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first."

"Yes, but that did not last long," said Catherine, her eyes brightening
at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence
there.

"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for
nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well?
I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you
know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that
evening?"

"Do I! Oh! Perfectly."

"It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I
always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a
notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my
favourite gown on."

Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects,
Mrs. Allen again returned to--"I really have not patience with the
general! Such an agreeable, worthy man as he seemed to be! I do not
suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His
lodgings were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no
wonder; Milsom Street, you know."

As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her
daughter's mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr.
and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or
unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with
her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her
earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but
there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has
very little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every
position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very
slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and
while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the
justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting
that now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard
of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for
Hereford.




CHAPTER 30


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 as if she
could even walk about the house rather than remain fixed for any time
in the parlour. Her loss of spirits was a yet greater alteration. In her
rambling and her idleness she might only be a caricature of herself; but
in her silence and sadness she was the very reverse of all that she had
been before.

For two days Mrs. Morland allowed it to pass even without a hint;
but when a third night's rest had neither restored her cheerfulness,
improved her in useful activity, nor given her a greater inclination for
needlework, 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
everything--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 contented, but especially at home,
because there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite
like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at
Northanger."

"I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what
I eat."

"There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much
such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by
great acquaintance--The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some
day or other, because I am sure it will do you good."

Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied
to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it
herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair,
from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her
needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing,
in her daughter's absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that
repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of
cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question,
anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some
time before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters
occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she
returned downstairs 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 entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young
man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he
immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter
as "Mr. Henry Tilney," with the embarrassment of real sensibility began
to apologize 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 intrusion. He did not address himself to
an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or
his sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always
kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance,
received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence;
thanking him for such an attention 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 mildness, it was not just at that
moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence
to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly
answering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about the weather and
roads. Catherine meanwhile--the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish
Catherine--said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye
made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set
her heart at ease for a time, and gladly 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
dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from
home--and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of
an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes' unbroken
silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her
mother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs.
Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her
perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable
would have given, immediately 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 gentleman, and a silencing nod from
her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary
consideration 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 communicate only to Catherine, would
not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk,
and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it.
Some explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first
purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's
grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could
ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that
heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally
knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely
attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies
of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his
affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other
words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only
cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in
romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's
dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild
imagination will at least be all my own.

A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random,
without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of
her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them
to the ecstasies of another tete-a-tete; 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
rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and
as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of
his father's conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant
delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay
to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a
deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride
would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich
than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her
possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath,
solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his
daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house
seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his
resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.

John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son
one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss
Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her
than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man
of General Tilney's importance, had been joyfully and proudly
communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation
of Morland's engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon
marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the
family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him
believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was 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
overrated, 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--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 his boasted interest and ruining his dearest
hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all
this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in
her situation likely to engage 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 everything 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 forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer
serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to
the advantage of the Morlands--confessed himself to have been totally
mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by
the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance
and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks
proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first
overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal
proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of
the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of
giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a
necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means
respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular
opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their
fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy
connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race.

The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring
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. Enraged with
almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for
the abbey, where his performances have been seen.

I leave it to my reader's sagacity to determine how much of all this
it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how
much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own
conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be
told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must
divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in
suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife,
she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.

Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost
as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the
narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation
between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's
indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending
his father's views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been
open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to
give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling,
no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill
brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and
the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his
anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was
sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself
bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing
that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy
retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable
anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it
prompted.

He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an
engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of
Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his
hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful
disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours
were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston,
and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to
Fullerton.




CHAPTER 31


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 recommendations; and having
never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could
be told. Goodwill 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 remark; but quick
was the consolation of there being nothing like practice.

There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one
was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement.
Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while
his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow
themselves 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 any parading stipulation; but
the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once
obtained--and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be
very long denied--their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His
consent was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than
entitled to demand his money. Of a very considerable fortune, his son
was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; 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 fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now
his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his
improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously
forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the
torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let
us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did--they had been too kind
to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at
that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way.

The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion
of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final
event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will
see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are
all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their
early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable
circumstance could work upon a temper like the general's? The
circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with
a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of
the summer--an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good
humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained
his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him "to be a fool if he
liked it!"

The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such
a home as Northanger had been made by Henry's banishment, to the home of
her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to
give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the
occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending
merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy
felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin;
and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from
addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had
removed all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his
daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient
endurance as when he first hailed her "Your Ladyship!" Her husband was
really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and
his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the
world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the
most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination
of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to
add--aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a
character not connected with my fable--that this was the very
gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of
washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my
heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures.

The influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother's behalf
was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances
which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they
were qualified to give. It taught him that he had been scarcely
more misled by Thorpe's first boast of the family wealth than by his
subsequent malicious overthrow of it; that in no sense of the word were
they necessitous or poor, and that Catherine would have three thousand
pounds. This was so material an amendment of his late expectations that
it greatly contributed to smooth the descent of his pride; and by no
means without its effect was the private intelligence, which he was at
some pains to procure, that the Fullerton estate, being entirely at
the disposal of its present proprietor, was consequently open to every
greedy speculation.

On the strength of this, the general, soon after Eleanor's marriage,
permitted his son to return to Northanger, and thence made him the
bearer of his consent, very courteously worded in a page full of empty
professions to Mr. Morland. The event which it authorized soon followed:
Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody 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 convinced that the
general's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to
their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their
knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment,
I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the
tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or
reward filial disobedience.

Chapter 1

Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.

"Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, 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 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, serving the office of high sheriff, representing a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II, with all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two handsome duodecimo pages, and 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 judgement and conduct, if they might be pardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never required indulgence afterwards.--She had humoured, or softened, or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them.--Three girls, the two eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father. She had, however, one very intimate friend, a sensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment to herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on her kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help and maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had been anxiously giving her daughters.

This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been anticipated on that head by their acquaintance. Thirteen years had passed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near neighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow.

That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well provided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no apology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but Sir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be it known then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one or two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications), prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters' sake. For one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing, which he had not been very much tempted to do. Elizabeth had succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights and consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on together most happily. His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary had acquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles Musgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character, which must have placed her high with any people of real understanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no weight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only Anne.

To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued god-daughter, favourite, and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; but it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.

A few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her bloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had found little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate features and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in them, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had never indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in any other page of his favourite work. All equality of alliance must rest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore given all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably.

It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been neither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome Miss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be deemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming as ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he could plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance were growing. Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about Lady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him.

Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment. Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have given the idea of her being younger than she was. For thirteen years had she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at home, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking immediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters' revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood afforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled up to London with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the great world. She had the remembrance of all this, she had the consciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and some apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as handsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and would have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by baronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two. Then might she again take up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth, but now she liked it not. Always to be presented with the date of her own birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table 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 overtures had not been met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making allowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their spring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr Elliot had been forced into the introduction.

He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the law; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his favour was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked of and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came. The following spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and the next tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth.

Sir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house, he felt that he ought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so publicly by the hand; "For they must have been seen together," he observed, "once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons." His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little regarded. Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them had ceased.

This very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for himself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong family pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter Elliot's eldest daughter. There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal. Yet so miserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present time (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could not admit him to be worth thinking of again. The disgrace of his first marriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it perpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse; but he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most slightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and the honours which were hereafter to be his own. This could not be pardoned.

Such were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations; such the cares to alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings to give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no talents or accomplishments for home, to occupy.

But now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be added to these. Her father was growing distressed for money. She knew, that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr Shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts. The Kellynch property was good, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required in its possessor. While Lady Elliot lived, there had been method, moderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but with her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he had been constantly exceeding it. It had not been possible for him to spend less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Elliot was imperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only growing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his daughter. He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town; he had gone so far even as to say, "Can we retrench? Does it occur to you that there is any one article in which we can retrench?" and Elizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm, set seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed these two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room; to which expedients she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no present down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom. But these measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged to confess to her soon afterwards. Elizabeth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy. She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne.

There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose of; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no difference. He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would never condescend to sell. No; he would never disgrace his name so far. The 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 to advise them; and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be struck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and reduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence of taste or pride.



Chapter 2

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 anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see finally adopted.

Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it much serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles. She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-breeding. She had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent; but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an 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 reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything but justice and equity.

"If we can persuade your father to all this," said Lady Russell, looking over her paper, "much may be done. If he will adopt these regulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able to convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the eyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle. What will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have done, or ought to do? There will be nothing singular in his case; and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of prevailing. We must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more due to the character of an honest man."

This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell's influence highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation. Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle reductions.

How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little consequence. Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up with, were not to be borne. "What! every comfort of life knocked off! Journeys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and restrictions every where! To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms."

"Quit Kellynch Hall." The hint was immediately taken up by Mr Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a change of abode. "Since the idea had been started in the very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple," he said, "in confessing his judgement 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.

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 comparatively little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over London had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.

Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes. It would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his own 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 Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to be more known.

The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter's have found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, however, was a 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 supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour, that he would let it at all.

How quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children. She was a clever young woman, who understood the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall; and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been already staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution and reserve.

Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the injustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgement 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 3

"I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter," said Mr Shepherd one morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, "that the present juncture is much in our favour. This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore. They will be all wanting a home. Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. Many a noble fortune has been made during the war. If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter--"

"He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd," replied Sir Walter; "that's all I have to remark. A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him; rather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before; hey, Shepherd?"

Mr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added--

"I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business, gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with. I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with. 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, as I was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave to add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the trouble of replying."

Sir Walter only nodded. But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically--

"There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description."

"They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune," said Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present: her father had driven her over, nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay's health as a drive to Kellynch: "but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might be a very desirable tenant. I have known a good deal of the profession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways! These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe. Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of! The gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now. You need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected."

"As to all that," rejoined Sir Walter coolly, "supposing I were induced to let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the privileges to be annexed to it. I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant. The park would be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range; but what restrictions I might impose on the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing. I am not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden. I am very little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary favour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier."

After a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say--

"In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything plain and easy between landlord and tenant. Your interest, Sir Walter, is in pretty safe hands. Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be for him."

Here Anne spoke--

"The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an equal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the privileges which any home 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 grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man. I have observed it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line. One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to give place to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. 'In the name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said I to a friend of mine who was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley). 'Old fellow!' cried Sir Basil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin. What do you take his age to be?' 'Sixty,' said I, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'Forty,' replied Sir Basil, 'forty, and no more.' Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age."

"Nay, Sir Walter," cried Mrs Clay, "this is being severe indeed. Have a little mercy on the poor men. We are not all born to be handsome. The sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I have observed it; they soon lose the look of youth. But then, is not it the same with many other professions, perhaps most other? Soldiers, in active service, are not at all better off: and even in the quieter professions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time. The lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours, and travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--" she stopt a moment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--"and even the clergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere. In fact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is necessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the country, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and living on their own property, without the torment of trying for more; it is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good appearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose something of their personableness when they cease to be quite young."

It seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter's good will 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 inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man who knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most responsible, eligible tenant.

"And who is Admiral Croft?" was Sir Walter's cold suspicious inquiry.

Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and mentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed, added--

"He is a rear admiral of the white. He was in the Trafalgar action, and has been in the East Indies since; he was 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 inquired about the manor; would be glad of the deputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes took out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman.

Mr 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 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 judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise. Very odd indeed!"

After waiting another moment--

"You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?" said Anne.

Mr Shepherd was all gratitude.

"Wentworth was the very name! Mr Wentworth was the very man. He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years. Came there about the year ---5, I take it. You 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 connexion of the Crofts did them no service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all his zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their favour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had formed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of renting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary taste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir Walter's estimate of the dues of a tenant.

It succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen.

Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had 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."



Chapter 4

He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.

A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a 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 connexions to secure even his farther rise in the profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to think of! Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be prevented.

Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession; but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion 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 success, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment. He had left the country in consequence.

A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.

More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society. No one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, 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 removed from the partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in this case, Anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits.

They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would follow, had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.

How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence! She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.

With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had received any information of their short-lived engagement. That brother had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond 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.



Chapter 5

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 satisfactory, and decided the whole business at once. Each lady was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an 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 difference to modify of all that "This indenture sheweth."

Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say, that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through the park, "I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told us at Taunton. The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems to be 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 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 possible for her to stay behind till she might convey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of her own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything considered, she wished to remain. It would be most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others.

Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.

"I cannot possibly do without Anne," was Mary's reasoning; and Elizabeth's reply was, "Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody will want her in Bath."

To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed to stay.

This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.

So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her, which was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation.

Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible. She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in her absence; but she was young, and certainly 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 perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be 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 very beautiful woman, I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs Clay who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect safety. One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of her's and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much as they do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's freckles."

"There is hardly any personal defect," replied Anne, "which an agreeable manner might not gradually 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 anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me."

Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it.

The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good spirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted 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 anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne. Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the 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, containing only two houses superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for his residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French windows, and other prettiness, 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 nor temper. While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot 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--

"So, you are come at last! I began to think I should never see you. I am so ill I can hardly speak. I have not seen a creature the whole morning!"

"I am sorry to find you unwell," replied Anne. "You sent me such a good account of yourself on Thursday!"

"Yes, I made the best of it; I always do: but I was very far from well at the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have been all this morning: very unfit to be left alone, I am sure. Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell! So, Lady Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this house three times this summer."

Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband. "Oh! Charles is out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o'clock. He would go, though I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one. I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning."

"You have had your little boys with you?"

"Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad."

"Well, you will soon be better now," replied Anne, cheerfully. "You know I always cure you when I come. How are your neighbours at the Great House?"

"I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one of them to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put 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."

"My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of yourself! You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the last: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have left Kellynch sooner."

"Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?"

"A great many things, I assure you. More than I can recollect in a moment; but I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures. I have been several times in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell. I have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary, of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave. I was told that they wished it. But all these things took up a great deal of time."

"Oh! well!" and after a moment's pause, "but you have never asked me one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday."

"Did you go then? I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party."

"Oh yes! I went. I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter with me till this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone."

"I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant party."

"Nothing remarkable. One always knows beforehand what the dinner will be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a carriage of one's own. Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so crowded! They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr Musgrove always sits forward. So, there was I, crowded into the back seat with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my illness to-day may be owing to it."

A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on Anne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's. She could soon sit upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time. Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then she was well enough to propose a little walk.

"Where shall we go?" said she, when they were ready. "I suppose you will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see you?"

"I have not the smallest objection on that account," replied Anne. "I should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves."

"Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. They ought to feel what is due to you as my sister. However, we may as well go and sit with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy our walk."

Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent; but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could now do without it. To the Great House accordingly they went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour, with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in every direction. Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness! The portraits themselves seemed to be staring in astonishment.

The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant. Their children had more modern minds and manners. There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up, excepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from 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 manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad. Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known so little herself with either of her sisters.

They were received with great cordiality. Nothing seemed amiss on the side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well knew, the least to blame. The half hour was chatted away pleasantly enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's particular invitation.



Chapter 6

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 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 extraordinary 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 common 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 anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.

Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation, or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe, with Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and elegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books or anything else. He had very good spirits, which never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both parties), they might pass for a happy couple. They were always perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.

As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad. "I could manage them very well, if it were not for Mary's interference," was what Anne often heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in turn to Mary's 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 spoke Mary: "I do believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was anything the matter with me. I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might persuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever own."

Mary's declaration was, "I hate sending the children to the Great House, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of the day." And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with Anne, to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children. They are quite different creatures with you! But to be sure, in general they are so spoilt! It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of managing them. They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more how they should be treated--! Bless me! how troublesome they are sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them at our house so often as I otherwise should. I believe Mrs Charles is not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them."

She had this communication, moreover, from Mary. "Mrs Musgrove thinks all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are gadding about the village, all day long. I meet them wherever I go; and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing something of them. If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." And on Mrs Musgrove's side, it was, "I make a rule of never interfering in any of my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall tell 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 anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning it."

Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day when Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "I have no scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma. Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it. It is not that mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons."

How was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She could do little more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such 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 advantage. It was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.

She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no new sensation. Excepting one short period of her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for their sakes, than mortification for her own.

The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company. The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors by invitation and by chance, than any other family. They were more completely popular.

The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally, in an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within a walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the Musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time, and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"Well done, Miss Anne! very well done indeed! Lord bless me! how those little fingers of yours fly about!"

So passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other eyes and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the 29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed, "Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me!"

The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself. "Nobody knew how much she should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could;" but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation, when she came back. Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her going. She wished, however to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned. They came: the master of the house was not at home, but the two sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in the voice, or in 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 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 thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with proper interest.

The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she heard the Admiral say to Mary--

"We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you know him by name."

He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets, &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 anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the Crofts had previously been calling.

The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize, and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.

"And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it. I am come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard! And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of spirits. When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother, Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard! So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things."

The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.

He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead.

He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for money.

In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind which do sometimes occur.

She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful companions could give them.

To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it might, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain Wentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their coming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to Anne's nerves. She found, however, that it was one to which she must inure herself. Since he actually was expected in the country, she must teach herself to be insensible on such points. And not only did it appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their warm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not perfectly well-spelt praise, as "a fine dashing felow, only two perticular about the 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 7

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 shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own roof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his cellars. But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne's reckoning, and then, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she could feel secure even for a week.

Captain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove's civility, and she was all but calling there in the same half hour. She and Mary were actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she afterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were stopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in consequence of a bad fall. The child's situation put the visit entirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference, even in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on his account.

His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in the back, as roused the most alarming ideas. It was an afternoon of distress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to send for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to support and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest child to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe; besides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the other house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened, enquiring companions, than of very useful assistants.

Her brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary. Till he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the worse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where; but now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt and felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the father and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be able to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then it was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so far to digress from their nephew's state, as to give the information of Captain Wentworth's visit; staying five minutes behind their father and mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with him, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him than any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all a favourite before. How glad they had been to hear papa invite him to stay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and how glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma's farther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the morrow--actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a manner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he ought. And in short, he had looked and said everything with such exquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both turned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and apparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles.

The same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls came with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make enquiries; and Mr 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, shewed 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, consequently, 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. Anne will send for me if anything is the matter."

Husbands and wives generally understand when opposition 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 teaze him. She said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was only Anne to hear--

"So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick child; and not a creature coming near us all the evening! I knew how it would be. This is always my luck. If there is anything 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 anybody 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 feelings generally make it so."

"I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that I am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be always scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw, this morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin kicking about. I have not nerves for the sort of thing."

"But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole evening away from the poor boy?"

"Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I? Jemima is so careful; and she could send us word every hour how he was. I really think Charles might as well have told his father we would all come. I am not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is. I was dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very 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."

"Are you serious?" cried Mary, her eyes brightening. "Dear me! that's a very good thought, very good, indeed. To be sure, I may just as well go as not, for I am of no use at home--am I? and it only harasses me. You, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest person. You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you at a word. It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with Jemima. Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as much as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with Captain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone. An excellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne. I will go and tell Charles, and get ready directly. You can send for us, you know, at a moment's notice, if anything 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 anything he did not like. Anne will stay; Anne undertakes 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, "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 unpersuadable; and this being the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off together in high spirits. They were gone, she hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself, she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers. She knew herself to be of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others?

She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting. Perhaps indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances. He must be either indifferent or unwilling. Had he wished ever to see her again, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what she could not but believe that in his place she should have done long ago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone had been wanting.

Her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance, 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 perfectly, 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.

Anne understood it. He wished to avoid seeing her. He had inquired after her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they were to meet.

The morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the other house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary and Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to say that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs, that his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters meaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing also to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though Charles had answered for the child's being in no such state as could make it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without his running on to give notice.

Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive him, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the most consoling, that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In two minutes after Charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room. Her eye half met Captain Wentworth's, a bow, a curtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that was right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few minutes ended it. Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too, 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 passed, since all had been given up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not eight years do? Events of every description, changes, alienations, removals--all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past-- how natural, how certain too! It included nearly a third part of her own life.

Alas! with all her reasoning, 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 information from Mary:--

"Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so attentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they went away, and he said, 'You were so altered he should not have known you again.'"

Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way, but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar wound.

"Altered beyond his knowledge." Anne fully 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 composed, and consequently must make her happier.

Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried round to her. He had thought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure. She had given him up to oblige others. It had been the effect of over-persuasion. It had been weakness and timidity.

He had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again. Her power with him was gone for ever.

It was now his object to marry. He was rich, and being turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head and a 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. Anybody between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking. A little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few compliments 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 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.

"That 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."



Chapter 8

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 absenting 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 lead him, to talk; and "That was in the year six;" "That happened before I went to sea in the year six," occurred 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 conceiving it to be of equal pain.

They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other exceptions 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.

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 that 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 provide 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 had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again."

"But, Captain Wentworth," cried Louisa, "how vexed you must have been when you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you."

"I knew pretty well what she was before that day;" said he, smiling. "I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to 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 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 hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror.

"And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear," (beckoning him to her), "do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot."

"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."

Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.

"My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor Richard."

"Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you."

There was a momentary expression in Captain 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 shewed the kindest consideration for all that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings.

They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove. It was no insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable, substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.

Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions. A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will seize.

The Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came up to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might be 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."

"Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then."

The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He defended himself; though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might comprehend.

"But, if I know myself," said he, "this is from no want of gallantry towards them. It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all one's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on board such as 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 anywhere, 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 three children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Where was this superfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?"

"All merged in my friendship, Sophia. I would assist any brother officer's wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville's from the world's end, if he wanted it. But do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil in itself."

"Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable."

"I might not like them the better for that perhaps. Such a number of women and children have no right to be comfortable on board."

"My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray, what would become of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our husbands, if 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 had 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."

"Now I have done," cried Captain Wentworth. "When once married people begin to attack me with,--'Oh! you will think very differently, when you are married.' I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say again, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it."

He got up and moved away.

"What a great traveller you must have been, ma'am!" said Mrs Musgrove to Mrs Croft.

"Pretty well, ma'am in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many women have done more. I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have been once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides being in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar. But I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West Indies. We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies."

Mrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse herself of having ever called them anything 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 I ever really suffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by myself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North Seas. I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience."

"Aye, 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 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 admitted to the honour of being in love with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they both seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued appearance of the most perfect good-will between 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 herself, observing her altered features, perhaps, trying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed him; and once she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was hardly aware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of his having asked his partner whether Miss Elliot never danced? The answer was, "Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing. She had rather play. She is never tired of playing." Once, too, he spoke to her. She had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss 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.



Chapter 9

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 country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this off. There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of everything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so hospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to remain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of Edward's wife upon credit a little longer.

It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day. The Musgroves could hardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the morning, when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs Croft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in their new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about in a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig, lately added to their establishment.

Hitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the Musgroves and their dependencies. It was unvarying, warm admiration 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 neighbourhood, 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 at this critical period, and when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners, and of seeing Captain Wentworth.

Mrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters. They had each had money, but their marriages had made a material difference in their degree of consequence. Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was insignificant compared with Mr Musgrove's; and while the Musgroves were in the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would, from their parents' inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living, and their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at all, but for their connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course excepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was very superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest.

The two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no pride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a consciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them pleased to improve their cousins. Charles's attentions to Henrietta had been observed by her father and mother without any 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 Wentworth came; but from that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.

Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet quite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation reached. Henrietta was perhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not now, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most likely to attract him.

Mr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire confidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the young men who came near them, seemed to leave everything 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 wonder; and Captain Wentworth had not been above four or five times in the Miss Musgroves' company, and Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when Anne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to which was the one liked best. Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for Henrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be extremely delightful.

Charles "had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he had once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had not made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war. Here was a fortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might be done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as likely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy. Oh! it would be a capital match for either of his sisters."

"Upon my word it would," replied Mary. "Dear me! If he should rise to any very great honours! If he should ever be made a baronet! 'Lady Wentworth' sounds very well. That would be a noble thing, indeed, for Henrietta! She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not dislike that. Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth! It would be but a new creation, however, and I never think much of your new creations."

It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an end to. She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the families renewed--very sad for herself and her children.

"You know," said she, "I cannot think him at all a fit match for Henrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made, she has no right to throw herself away. I do not think any young woman has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to those who have not been used to them. And, pray, who is Charles Hayter? Nothing but a country curate. A most improper match for Miss Musgrove of Uppercross."

Her husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having a regard for his cousin, 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 is not less than two hundred and fifty acres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best land in the country. I grant you, that any of them but Charles would be a very shocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he is the only one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured, good sort of a fellow; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he will make a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different sort of way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible man--good, freehold property. No, no; Henrietta might do worse than marry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain Wentworth, I shall be very well satisfied."

"Charles may say what he pleases," cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he was out of the room, "but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry 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 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 impeaching 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 sympathize 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 extinguish every past hope, and leave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross: but there was such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain Wentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause. He had been absent only two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and obtaining that of 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 fatigue, had been a great deal, even to Louisa, but had been almost everything 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 a window, looking out for Captain Wentworth; and even Henrietta had at best only a divided attention to give, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the negotiation.

"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 up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments, I dare say," had been Anne's reply, in all the confusion that was natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do something for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment, and released Captain Wentworth as well as herself.

He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, "I hope the little boy is better," was silent.

She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little vestibule. She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the house; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters easy--Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight of Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.

She only attempted to say, "How do you do? Will you not sit down? The others will be here presently."

Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not ill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.

Another minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a remarkable stout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for him by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his claim to anything 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."

"Walter," cried Charles Hayter, "why do you not do as you are bid? Do not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin Charles."

But not a bit did Walter stir.

In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew that Captain Wentworth had done it.

Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless. She could not even thank him. She could only hang over little Charles, with most disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping forward to her relief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little particulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her by the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to avoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of varying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from, till enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss 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 Wentworth. She had a strong impression of his having said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth's interference, "You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to teaze your aunt;" and could comprehend his regretting that Captain Wentworth should do what he ought to have done himself. But neither Charles Hayter's feelings, nor anybody'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 10

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 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 studying 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, I should like to join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;" Anne felt persuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what they did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the family habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be communicated, and everything being to be done together, however undesired and inconvenient. She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but in vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss Musgroves' much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as she might be useful in turning back 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. "Everybody is always supposing that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been pleased, if we had refused to join them. When people come in this manner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?"

Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned. They had taken out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early. Their time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready for this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure. Could Anne have foreseen 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 Musgroves, 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 had 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 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. I wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very often, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as not."

"Ah! 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 always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven safely by anybody else."

It was spoken with enthusiasm.

"Had you?" cried he, catching the same tone; "I honour you!" And there was silence between them for a little while.

Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her memory. She roused herself to say, as they struck by order into another path, "Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop?" But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.

Winthrop, however, or its environs--for young men are, sometimes to be met with, strolling about near home--was their destination; and after another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the ploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again, they gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted Uppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter, at the foot of the hill on the other side.

Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them; an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of a farm-yard.

Mary exclaimed, "Bless me! here is Winthrop. I declare I had no idea! Well now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired."

Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary wished; but "No!" said Charles Musgrove, and "No, no!" cried Louisa more eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the matter warmly.

Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution of calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently, though more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too. But this was one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when he recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at Winthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, "Oh! no, indeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any sitting down could do her good;" and, in short, her look and manner declared, that go she would not.

After a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations, it was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and Henrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and cousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the hill. Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she went a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta, Mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying to Captain Wentworth--

"It is very unpleasant, having such connexions! But, I assure you, I have never been in the house above twice in my life."

She received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne perfectly knew the meaning of.

The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a 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 visit to your aunt was in question; and woe 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 resist idle interference in such a trifle as this. Your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see. If you value her conduct or happiness, infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can. But this, no doubt, you have been always doing. It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on. You are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody may sway it. Let those who would be happy be firm. Here is a nut," said he, catching one down from an upper bough, "to exemplify: a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn. Not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere. This nut," he continued, with playful solemnity, "while so many of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of." Then returning to his former earnest tone--"My first wish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind."

He had done, and was unanswered. It would have surprised Anne if Louisa could have readily answered such a speech: words of such interest, spoken with such serious warmth! She could imagine what Louisa was feeling. For herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen. While she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected her, and they were moving on. Before they were beyond her hearing, however, Louisa spoke again.

"Mary is good-natured enough in many respects," said she; "but she does sometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and 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--

"Do you mean that she refused him?"

"Oh! yes; certainly."

"When did that happen?"

"I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time; but I believe about a year before he married Mary. I wish she had accepted him. We should all have liked her a great deal better; and papa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's doing, that she did not. They think Charles might not be learned and bookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she persuaded Anne to refuse him."

The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more. Her own emotions still kept her fixed. She had much to recover from, before she could move. The listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely hers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal of very painful import. She saw how her own character was considered by Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation.

As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked back with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort in their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once more in motion together. Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence which only numbers could give.

Charles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured, Charles Hayter with them. The minutiae of the business Anne could not attempt to understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to perfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the gentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now very glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt. Henrietta looked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--Charles Hayter exceedingly happy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross.

Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. In a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they were thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of the three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne necessarily belonged. She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired enough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according to custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at all.

This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of it was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit, the carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time heard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig. He and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home. Upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a full 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 surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in 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 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 it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"

"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before."

"Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more 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 representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely deposited by them at the Cottage.



Chapter 11

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 Uppercross, that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary for Lady Russell.

She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain Wentworth at the Hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious for the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting anywhere. 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 Harville's being settled with his family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within twenty miles of each other. Captain Harville had never been in good health since a severe wound which he received two years before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately to Lyme. He had been there for four-and-twenty hours. His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a lively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine country about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an earnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither was the consequence.

The young people were all wild to see Lyme. Captain Wentworth talked of going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from Uppercross; though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in short, Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down all the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer; and to Lyme they were to go--Charles, 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 required, 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 punctually, it was so much past noon before the two carriages, Mr Musgrove's coach containing the four ladies, and Charles's curricle, in which he drove Captain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into Lyme, and entering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was very evident they would not have more than time for looking about them, before the light and warmth of the day were gone.

After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the inns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly down to the sea. They were come too late in the year for any amusement or variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer. The rooms were shut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the residents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings themselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round the pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing machines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to the east of the town, are what the stranger's eye will seek; and a very strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate environs of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better. The scenes in its neighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive sweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by dark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in unwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of Up Lyme; and, above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic rocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant growth, declare that many a generation must have passed away since 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 descending, 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 deserved to look on it at all, proceeded towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on Captain Wentworth's account: for in a small house, near the foot of an old pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled. Captain Wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he was to join them on the Cobb.

They were by no means tired of wondering and 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 praise of him as an excellent young man and an officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped him well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little history of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting in the eyes of all the ladies. He had been engaged to Captain Harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss. They had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion. Fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last; but Fanny Harville did not live to know it. She had died the preceding summer while he was at sea. Captain Wentworth believed it impossible for man to be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to Fanny Harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful change. He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits. To finish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the Harvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all their views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them entirely. Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a year; his taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to a residence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the country, and the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly adapted to Captain Benwick's state of mind. The sympathy and good-will excited towards Captain Benwick was very great.

"And yet," said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the party, "he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have. I cannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man. He will rally again, and be happy with another."

They all met, and were introduced. Captain Harville was a tall, dark man, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; 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 a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from conversation.

Captain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth 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 promising to dine with them. The dinner, already ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted as a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should have brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing of course that they should dine with them.

There was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such a bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike the usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality and display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be 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 accommodating 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 account, to supply the deficiencies of lodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the winter storms to be expected. The varieties in the fitting-up of the rooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the common indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a rare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious and valuable from all the distant countries Captain Harville had visited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected as it all was with his profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence on his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it presented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification.

Captain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick. His lameness 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 everything 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; protesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and warmth than any other set of men in England; that they only knew how to live, and they only deserved to be respected and loved.

They went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered already, that nothing was found amiss; though its being "so entirely out of season," and the "no thoroughfare of Lyme," and the "no expectation of company," had brought many apologies from the heads of the inn.

Anne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being in Captain Wentworth's company than she had at first imagined could ever be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the interchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got beyond), was become a mere nothing.

The nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow, but Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he came, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected, it having been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of being oppressed by the presence of so many strangers. He ventured among them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem fit for the mirth of the party in general.

While Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the room, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance to occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed rather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her nature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him. He was shy, and disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well repaid the first trouble of exertion. He was evidently a young man of considerable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and besides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening's indulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions had probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to him in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling against affliction, which had naturally grown out of their conversation. For, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather the appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and having talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone through a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets, trying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady of the Lake were to be preferred, and how ranked the Giaour and The Bride of 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 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 shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his situation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the right of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger allowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to particularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such collections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth and suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse and fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest examples of moral and religious endurances.

Captain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the interest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which declared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like his, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to procure and read them.

When the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of her coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man whom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and preachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear examination.



Chapter 12

Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. They went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted. They praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with--

"Oh! yes,--I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the sea-air always does good. There can be no doubt of its having been of the greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring twelve-month. He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month, did him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the sea, always makes him feel young again. Now, I cannot help thinking it a pity that he does not live entirely by the sea. I do think he had better leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme. Do not you, Anne? Do not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both for himself and Mrs Shirley? She has cousins here, you know, and many acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she would be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another seizure. Indeed I think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley, who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut out from all the world. I wish his friends would propose it to him. I really think they ought. And, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. My only 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 a resident curate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such resident curate's being married.

"I wish," said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, "I wish Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley. I have always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody! 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 grateful, and amused also that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's views should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the Musgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards them. They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. They were all at her disposal.

When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again."

After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as 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.

"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, 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 ecstasy, "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 circumstance 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 hanging 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 together," said Captain Wentworth, "we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin."

When she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all desirable.

At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. She would not, upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time; luckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in their earlier 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 circumstance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed. The offence which had been given her father, many years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she suspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt. Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne.

Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could.

Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time, talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike of the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general change amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had Captain Harville by her side.

"Miss Elliot," said he, speaking rather low, "you have done a good deed in making that poor fellow talk so much. I wish he could have such company oftener. It is bad for 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 impossible; but in time, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and you must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called a young mourner--only last summer, I understand."

"Ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) "only June."

"And not known to him, perhaps, so soon."

"Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape, just made into the Grappler. I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of him; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth. There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it? not I. I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm. Nobody could do it, but that good fellow" (pointing to Captain Wentworth.) "The Laconia had come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being sent to sea again. He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant, and never left the poor fellow for a week. That's what he did, and nobody else could have saved 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 feeling 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 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 sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down, and instantly, to 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 the moment to all who stood around!

Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them.

"Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone.

"Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them."

Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony--

"Oh God! her father and mother!"

"A surgeon!" said Anne.

He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only--"True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested--

"Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found."

Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity.

As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give.

Anne, 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?"

Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her.

"Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn."

"Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others."

By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with 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 await 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 up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them.

Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer.

The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.

That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived.

The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.

Louisa's limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head.

It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to each other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another 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 maid's 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 everywhere, was just such another. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible.

Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of perplexity and terror. "Uppercross, the necessity of some one's going to Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr and Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone since they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in tolerable time." At first, they were capable of nothing more to the purpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth, exerting himself, said--

"We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valuable. Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross instantly. Musgrove, either you or I must go."

Charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away. He would be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville; but as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would. So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the same. She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently. The usefulness of her staying! She who had not been able to remain in Louisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her 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.

"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 one. Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne."

She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so spoken of. The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then appeared.

"You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;" cried he, turning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which seemed almost restoring the past. She coloured deeply, and he recollected himself and moved away. She expressed herself most willing, ready, happy to remain. "It was what she had been thinking of, and wishing to be allowed to do. A bed on the floor in Louisa's room would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so."

One thing more, and all seemed arranged. Though it was rather desirable that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some share of delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take them back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain Wentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much better for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove's carriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there would be the farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night.

Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything 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 Shirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot; a moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or those who were wrapt up in her welfare.

Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as they all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing degree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that it might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.

Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in waiting, stationed for their 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 in his countenance, the astonishment, the expressions 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. Without emulating the feelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink unnecessarily from the office of a friend.

In the meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had handed them both in, and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme. How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee. It was all quite natural, however. He was devoted to Henrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always with the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits. In general, his voice and manner were studiously calm. To spare Henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle. Once only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb, bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as if wholly overcome--

"Don't talk of it, don't talk of it," he cried. "Oh God! that I had not given way to her at the fatal moment! Had I done as I ought! But so eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!"

Anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the justness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and advantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him that, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits. She thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of happiness as a very resolute character.

They 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 is a good plan?"

She did: he was satisfied, and said no more. But the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of deference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting proof, its value did not lessen.

When the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had seen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention of returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were baited, he was off.

(End of volume one.)



Chapter 13

The remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, comprehending only two days, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the satisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an immediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the future, which, in Mr and Mrs Musgrove's distressed state of spirits, would have been difficulties.

They had an early account from Lyme the next morning. Louisa was much the same. No symptoms worse than before had appeared. Charles came a few hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account. He was tolerably cheerful. A speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted. In speaking of the Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of their kindness, especially of Mrs Harville's exertions as a nurse. "She really left nothing for Mary to do. He and Mary had been persuaded to go early to their inn last night. Mary had been 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 left nothing for anybody to do."

Charles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at first half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent. It would be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his own distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon. A chaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far more useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who having brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the lingering and long-petted Master Harry, sent to school after his brothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and dress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who, consequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse dear Miss Louisa. Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred before to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly have been resolved on, and found practicable so soon.

They were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute knowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every twenty-four hours. He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his account was still encouraging. The intervals of sense and consciousness were believed to be stronger. Every report agreed in Captain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme.

Anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded. "What should they do without her? They were wretched comforters for one another." And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she could not do better than impart among them the general inclination to which she was privy, and persuaded 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!

If Louisa recovered, it would all be well again. More than former happiness would be restored. There could not be a doubt, to her mind there was none, of what would follow her recovery. A few months hence, and the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self, might be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was glowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne Elliot!

An hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark November day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few objects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the sound of Lady Russell's carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though desirous to be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an adieu to the Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda, or even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of the village, without a saddened heart. Scenes had passed in Uppercross which made it precious. It stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear. She left it all behind her, all but the 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.

There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in meeting her. She knew who had been frequenting Uppercross. But happily, either Anne was improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so; and Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the amusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin, and of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty.

When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental change. The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving Kellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest. She had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath. Their concerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady Russell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in the house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and her regret that Mrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have been ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of Lyme and Louisa Musgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more interesting to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and Captain Benwick, than her own father's house in Camden Place, or her own sister's intimacy with Mrs Clay. She was actually forced to exert herself to meet Lady Russell with 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 enquiries, 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 between him and Louisa. When this was told, his name distressed her no longer.

Lady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed by a Louisa Musgrove.

The first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance to mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which found their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather improving account of Louisa. At the end of that period, Lady Russell's politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became in a decided tone, "I must call on Mrs Croft; I really must call upon her soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house? It will be some trial to us both."

Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in observing--

"I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your feelings are less reconciled to the change than mine. By remaining in the neighbourhood, I am become inured to it."

She could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an opinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in his tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the necessity of the removal, she could not but in 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 returning 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 remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh of that description to heave.

Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving her in that house, there was particular attention.

The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each lady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; 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 anything 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 judgements 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 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 ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it."

"Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now."

"Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not."

Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very 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 improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (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 him 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 each other: but the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at present; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to be going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north of the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady Russell would be removing to Bath.

So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch Hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend. Everything was safe enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject.



Chapter 14

Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and Mrs Musgrove's going than Anne conceived they could have been at all wanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and as soon as possible after their return to 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 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 Harvilles, and she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that the balance had certainly been much in favour of Lyme. She had been taken to Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church, and there were a great many more people to look at in the church at Lyme than at Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so very useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight.

Anne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary's face was clouded directly. Charles laughed.

"Oh! Captain 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 everybody to be living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady Russell lived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not courage to come. That is the fact, upon my honour. Mary knows it is."

But Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not considering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in love with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater attraction to 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 recommendation, 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 a very little to his credit, if he did. Miss Harville only died last June. Such a heart is very little worth having; is it, Lady Russell? I am sure you will agree with me."

"I must see Captain Benwick before I decide," said Lady Russell, smiling.

"And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma'am," said Charles. "Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and setting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make his way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it. I told him the distance and the road, and I told him of the church's being so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort of things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with all his understanding and soul; and I am sure from his manner that you will have him calling here soon. So, I give you notice, Lady Russell."

"Any 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 anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma'am. He is one of the dullest young men that ever lived. He has walked with me, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a word. He is not at all a well-bred young man. I am sure you will not like him."

"There we differ, Mary," said Anne. "I think Lady Russell would like him. I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she would very soon see no deficiency in his manner."

"So do I, Anne," said Charles. "I am sure Lady Russell would like him. He is just Lady Russell's sort. Give him a book, and he will read all day long."

"Yes, that he will!" exclaimed Mary, tauntingly. "He will sit poring over his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one drops one's scissors, or anything 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.

"He is a man," said Lady Russell, "whom I have no wish to see. His declining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left a very strong impression in his disfavour with me."

This decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the midst of the Elliot countenance.

With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries, there was voluntary 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 extremely fearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did not press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of going away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger. He had talked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade Captain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last, Captain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch.

There can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally thinking of Captain Benwick, from this time. Lady Russell could not hear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor could Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her father's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without wondering whether she might see him or hear of him. Captain Benwick came not, however. He was either less disposed for it than Charles had imagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence, Lady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had been beginning to excite.

The Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from school, bringing with them Mrs Harville's little children, to improve the noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme. Henrietta remained with Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual quarters.

Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne could not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again. Though neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain Wentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could be wished to the last state she had seen it in.

Immediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from the Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them. On one side was a table occupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and on the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn and cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole completed by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in spite of all the noise of the others. Charles and Mary also came in, of course, during their visit, and Mr 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 attentions 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 Uppercross, 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."

Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and sounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, 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 newspapermen, 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 disagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she arrived? And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of Uppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.

Elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of 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 much pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the connection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect. This was very wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very agreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting the sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being "a man whom she had no wish to see." She had a great wish to see him. If he really sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.

Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she felt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more than she could say for many other persons in Bath.

She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her own lodgings, in Rivers Street.



Chapter 15

Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he and Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.

Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of many months, and anxiously saying to herself, "Oh! when shall I leave you again?" A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she received, did her good. Her father and sister were glad to see her, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness. Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as an advantage.

Mrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and smiles were more a matter of course. Anne had always felt that she would pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of the others was unlooked for. They were evidently in excellent spirits, and she was soon to listen to the causes. They had no inclination to listen to her. After laying out for some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they had only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all their own. Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it was all Bath.

They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered their expectations in every respect. Their house was undoubtedly the best in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the superiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste of the furniture. Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after. Everybody was wanting to visit them. They had drawn back from many introductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people of whom they knew nothing.

Here were funds of enjoyment. Could Anne wonder that her father and sister were happy? She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her father should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to regret in the duties and dignity of the resident 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 apologize for the past, such solicitude to be received as a relation again, that their former good understanding was completely re-established.

They had not a fault to find in him. He had explained away all the appearance of neglect on his own side. It had originated in misapprehension entirely. He had never had an idea of throwing himself off; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and delicacy had kept him silent. Upon the hint of having spoken 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 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 material 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 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 happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.

Anne listened, but without quite understanding it. Allowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke. She heard it all under embellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but in the language of the relators. Still, however, she had the sensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in Mr Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well received by them. In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being on terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance. In all probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch 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 investigation of his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a fearful one. Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too nice, or too observant if Elizabeth were his object; and that Elizabeth was disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs Clay was encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them, while Mr Elliot's frequent visits were talked of.

Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without being much attended to. "Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot. They did not know. It might be him, perhaps." They could not listen to her description of him. They were describing him themselves; Sir Walter especially. He did justice to his very gentlemanlike appearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his sensible eye; but, at the same time, "must lament his being very much under-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he pretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for the worse. Mr Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was looking exactly as he had done when they last parted;" but Sir Walter had "not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him. He did not mean to complain, however. Mr Elliot was better to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen with him anywhere."

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 known only to them by description, as she was in daily expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as "a most charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place," and as soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted. Sir Walter thought much of Mrs 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 on Bond Street, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another, without there being a tolerable face among them. It had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of. But still, there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men! they were infinitely worse. Such scarecrows as the streets were full of! It was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced. He had never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a fine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every woman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel Wallis." Modest Sir Walter! He was not allowed to escape, however. His daughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly was not sandy-haired.

"How is Mary looking?" said Sir Walter, in the height of his good humour. "The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that may not happen every day."

"Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental. In general she has been in very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas."

"If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow coarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse."

Anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown, or a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the door suspended everything. "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 foot-boy 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 remembering Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very becomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the pretty features which he had by no means forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start of 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 relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an acquaintance already. He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person's manners. They were not the same, but they were, perhaps, equally good.

He sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much. There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man. Ten minutes were enough to certify that. His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but especially wanting to speak of the 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 adjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they must be a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but certainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow of a right to introduce himself. If he had but asked who the party were! The name of Musgrove would have told him enough. "Well, it would serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite a young man, on the principal of its being very ungenteel to be curious.

"The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty," said he, "as to what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more absurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world. The folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the folly of what they have in view."

But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew it; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at intervals that he could return to Lyme.

His enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place. Having alluded to "an accident," he must hear the whole. When he questioned, Sir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in their manner of doing it could not be unfelt. She could only compare Mr Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had passed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it.

He staid an hour with them. The elegant little clock on the mantel-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 16

There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot's being in love with Elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with Mrs Clay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at home a few hours. On going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of meaning to leave them. She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that "now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;" for Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, "That must not be any reason, indeed. I assure you I feel it none. She is nothing to me, compared with you;" and she was in full time to hear her father say, "My dear madam, this must not be. As yet, you have seen nothing of Bath. You have been here only to be useful. You must not run away from us now. You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the beautiful Mrs Wallis. To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is a real gratification."

He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to see Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself. Her countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. The lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.

In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he thought her "less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her complexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher. Had she been using any thing in particular?" "No, nothing." "Merely Gowland," 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 everything must take its chance. The evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry. As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady Russell.

Lady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial on this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place. The sight of Mrs Clay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual provocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a person in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and has a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed.

As Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more indifferent, towards the others. His manners were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost ready to exclaim, "Can this be Mr Elliot?" and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man. Everything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm heart. He had strong feelings of family attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he lived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he judged for himself in everything essential, without defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum. He was steady, observant, moderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness, which fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of domestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent agitation seldom really possess. She was sure that he had not been happy in marriage. Colonel 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 Honourable 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 everybody.

Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss 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, 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

While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description.

She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her 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 except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless widow, receiving the visit of her former protegee 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 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 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 anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, 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 merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of 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 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 anything 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 everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste! Everything that revolts other people, low company, 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."

"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 defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity.

Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite at 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 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 18

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 had 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 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, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much oftener than was welcome. Between ourselves, I think it a great pity Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept her a little out of his way. The carriage is gone to-day, to bring Louisa 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 anything. I do not think they improve at all as neighbours. We see nothing of them, and this is really an instance of gross inattention. Charles joins me in love, and everything proper. Yours affectionately,

"Mary M---.

"I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just told me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much about. I 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 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 everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. Anne saw them wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of happiness to her. She always watched them as long as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally delighted to see the Admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he encountered an old friend, and 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 anywhere for you, or with you? Can I be of any use?"

"None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your company the little way our road lies together. I am going home."

"That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too. Yes, yes we will have a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go along. There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if I have not a woman there. Lord! what a boat it is!" taking a last look at the picture, as they began to be in motion.

"Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?"

"Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain 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 as snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth and Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way."

When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate. She 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 taken 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, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice."

"Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please."

"Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, 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 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 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?"



Chapter 19

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 occupied a little time to settle the point of civility between the other two. The rain was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with Mr Elliot. But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much thicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr Elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the thickest.

It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat near the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain Wentworth walking down the street.

Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and absurd! For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all confusion. She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she found the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always obliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs Clay's.

She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to see if it rained. Why was she to suspect herself of another motive? Captain Wentworth must be out of sight. She left her seat, she would go; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was. She would see if it rained. She was sent back, however, in a moment by the entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a little below Milsom Street. He was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite red. For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. She had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! It was agitation, pain, pleasure, 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 anything 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 understand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot. At last Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for there was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth, watching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words, was offering his services to her.

"I am much obliged to you," was her answer, "but I am not going with them. The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer walking."

"But 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 Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with."

"She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister."

"Oh! so do I."

"And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them."

Anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would have walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a word. She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though nothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects were principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise, warm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations highly rational against Mrs Clay. But just now she could think only of Captain Wentworth. She could not understand his present feelings, whether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and till that point were settled, she could not be quite herself.

She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas! she must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.

Another circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he meant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not recollect it. He might be only passing through. But it was more probable that he should be come to stay. In that case, so liable as every body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all likelihood see him somewhere. Would she recollect him? How would it all be?

She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove was to marry Captain Benwick. It had cost her something to encounter Lady Russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect 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 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 number, and I have been trying to find out which it could be; but I confess I can see no curtains hereabouts that answer their description."

Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and 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 anything. The theatre or the rooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for the Elliots, whose evening amusements 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 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; "only tell me all about it, when you do come. Who is your party?"

Anne named them all. Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was leaving her said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, "Well, I heartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if you can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many more visits from you."

Anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.



Chapter 20

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 Captain Wentworth walked in alone. Anne was the nearest to him, and making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only to bow and pass on, but her gentle "How do you do?" brought him out of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back ground. Their being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew nothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to be done.

While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth caught her ear. She could not distinguish, but she must guess the subject; and on Captain Wentworth's making a distant bow, she comprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that simple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a side glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself. This, though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than nothing, and her spirits improved.

After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert, their conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that she was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in no hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little smile, a little glow, he said--

"I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering you at the time."

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."

"Yes," said he, looking not exactly forward; "but there, I think, ends the resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's comfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more than perhaps--"

He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus--

"I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but 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 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 an hundred things in a moment. It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say--

"You were a good while at Lyme, I think?"

"About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was quite ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have been obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round Lyme is very fine. I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I found to admire."

"I should very much like to see Lyme again," said Anne.

"Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found 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."

"The last hours were certainly very painful," replied Anne; "but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short" (with a faint blush at some recollections), "altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable."

As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting. "Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple," was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on! She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all. She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity 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 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 comparison between it and her sister's; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous attachment.

Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed; but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it. His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. His opinion of Louisa Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings as to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance, all, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness of the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could not contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her.

These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not reach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy in a humbler way.

The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manoeuvred so well, with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented.

Anne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the evening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the 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 anything more of your ignorance. Here is complete proof."

"I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient."

"I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long," replied he, "without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in any other woman."

"For shame! for shame! this is too much 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 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 interesting sound to me. Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I dared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change."

Such, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their sound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered every thing else trivial. Her father and Lady Dalrymple were speaking.

"A well-looking man," said Sir Walter, "a very well-looking man."

"A very fine young man indeed!" said Lady 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 Wentworth standing among a cluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed as if she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe, he did not look again: but the performance was recommencing, and she was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look straight forward.

When she could give another glance, he had moved away. He could not have come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in: but she would rather have caught his eye.

Mr Elliot's speech, too, distressed her. She had no longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished him not so near her.

The first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and, after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him.

He did not come however. Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a distance, but he never came. The anxious interval wore away unproductively. The others 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 re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of which was favourable for her. Colonel Wallis declined sitting down again, and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a manner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other removals, and a little scheming of her own, Anne was enabled to place herself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much more within reach of a passer-by. She could not do so, without comparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but still she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what seemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the concert closed.

Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain Wentworth was again in sight. She saw him not far off. He saw her too; yet he looked grave, and 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 singing; and in short, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over. Anne replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance improved, and he replied again with almost a smile. They talked for a few minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that moment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round. It came from Mr Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be sung. Anne could not refuse; but never had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.

A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done before, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried sort of farewell. "He must wish her good night; he was going; he should get home as fast as he could."

"Is not this song worth staying for?" said Anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.

"No!" he replied impressively, "there is nothing worth my staying for;" and he was gone directly.

Jealousy of Mr Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection! Could she have believed it a week ago; three hours ago! For a moment the gratification was exquisite. But, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such jealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach him? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr Elliot's attentions. Their evil was incalculable.



Chapter 21

Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to Mrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when Mr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was almost a first object.

She felt a great deal of good-will towards him. In spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. It was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present 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 constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way.

She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to 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. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith.

"The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert."

"Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room."

"The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them."

"I do not know. I do not think they were."

"Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course."

"No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little."

"Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and 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. She could say nothing.

"And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time."

Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence--

"Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?"

"Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?"

"I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met."

"I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you."

"To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done."

"I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne; "but I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr Elliot's relation. If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me."

Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said--

"I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon. I ought to have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune."

"No," replied Anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am?"

Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed--

"Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more 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 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 sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it.

"Do tell me how it first came into your head."

"It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago."

"And has it indeed been spoken of?"

"Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?"

"No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular."

"It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news."

Mrs Smith said nothing.

"But," continued Anne, presently, "though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?"

"No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with."

"I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?"

"I did."

"Not before he was married, I suppose?"

"Yes; he was not married when I knew him first."

"And--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 impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last--

"I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!"

Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added,

"My 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 entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good style. He was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know that he often assisted him."

"This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life," said Anne, "which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. I never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man."

"I know it all, I know it all," cried Mrs Smith. "He had been introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with him, but I heard him speak of them for ever. I know he was invited and encouraged, and I know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was privy to all the fors and againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans; and though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation in society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her life afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her life, and can answer any question you may 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 was curious, that having just left you behind me in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin; and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of your father and sister. He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very affectionately of the other."

"Perhaps," cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, "you sometimes spoke of me to Mr Elliot?"

"To be sure I did; very often. I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot, and vouch for your being a very different creature from--"

She checked herself just in time.

"This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night," cried Anne. "This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I could not comprehend how. What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken! But I beg your pardon; I have interrupted you. Mr Elliot married then completely for money? The circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his character."

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 his own situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it. His chance for 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, anybody 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 immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when I came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more trivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many letters and 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 produce it."

This was the letter, directed to "Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells," and dated from London, as far back as July, 1803:--

"Dear Smith,--I have received yours. Your kindness almost overpowers 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 advantage to the hammer. The baronet, nevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough. If he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent equivalent for the reversion. He is worse than last year.

"I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The name of Walter I can drop, thank God! and I desire 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.

"Can you really?"

"Yes. I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I will shew him as he is now. I cannot produce written proof again, but I can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting, and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now. He truly wants to marry you. His present attentions to your family are very sincere: quite from the heart. I will give you my authority: his friend Colonel Wallis."

"Colonel Wallis! you are 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 unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on you, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a sensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has a very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats it all to her. She in the overflowing spirits of her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. On Monday evening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of 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 reconciliation with my father. That was all prior to my coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly terms when I arrived."

"I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but--"

"Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such a line. Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so many, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly have much truth left."

"Only give me a hearing. You will soon be able to judge of the general credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself immediately contradict or confirm. Nobody supposes that you were his first inducement. He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and admired you, but without knowing it to be you. So says my historian, at least. Is this true? Did he see you last summer or autumn, 'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it to be you?"

"He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme. I happened 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 anything 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 you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon your father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in watching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath for a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas, Colonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports beginning to prevail. Now you are to understand, that time had worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a completely altered man. Having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the 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 may guess what it produced; the resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former 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 everybody was to be introduced. Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do."

"Yes," said Anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not."

"Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith. "He thinks Mrs Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it. 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' said she, 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody 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 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 their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr Elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been 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 embarrassments 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 judgement, Mr Smith had appointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress 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 shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent applications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse. She had a great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind.

There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular irritation. She had good reason to believe that some property of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many years under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own incumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this 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 employing others by her want of money. She had no natural connexions to assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law. This was a cruel aggravation of actually 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 something might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he loved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings, as far as the observances due to Mr Elliot's character would allow, when Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of everything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of succeeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the comfort of telling the whole story her own way.

After listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not but express some surprise at Mrs Smith's having spoken of him so favourably in the beginning of their conversation. "She had seemed to recommend and praise him!"

"My dear," was Mrs Smith's reply, "there was nothing else to be done. I considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had been your husband. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first wife. They were wretched together. But she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her. I was willing to hope that you must fare better."

Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility 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 everything relative to Mrs Smith, in which his conduct was involved.



Chapter 22

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 anything 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, unperplexed. Pity for him was all over. But this was the only point of relief. In every other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating 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 as entitled to reward for not slighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed springing from it! Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been extended through her family? But this was a vain idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event with as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of composure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be opened to Lady Russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself.

She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning visit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, 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 anybody 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 her hands and eyes, and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.

"Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him. I did invite him, you know. I sent him away with smiles. When I found he was really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day to-morrow, I had compassion on him."

Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object. It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight of Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done otherwise.

To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the room; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her. She had been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insincerity in everything. His attentive deference to her father, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she thought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments.

She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a remonstrance on his side. It was a great object to her to escape all enquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to him as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as quietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had been gradually led along. She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been the night before.

He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could have heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by more solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and animation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's vanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of those attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of the others. He little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to 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 everything 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 mortification 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 Russell quite bores one with her new publications. You need not tell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night. I used to think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the concert. Something so formal and arrang顩n her air! and she sits so upright! My best love, of course."

"And mine," added Sir Walter. "Kindest regards. And you may say, that I mean to call upon her soon. Make a civil message; but I shall only leave my card. Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of life, who make themselves up so little. If she would only wear rouge she would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I observed the blinds were let down immediately."

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 appearance; but Anne was really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that they could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became clear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any views of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were able to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well. They were come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the White Hart. So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter and Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and regaling themselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon Charles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an explanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent confusion as to whom their party consisted of.

She then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain Harville, beside their two selves. He gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on business. He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him, and Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything seemed to be in suspense, or at an end. But then, it had been taken up by his father and mother. His mother had some old friends in Bath whom she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short, it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be comfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included in it by way of general convenience. They had arrived late the night before. Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.

Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of. She had imagined such difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very recently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his 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 a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire. In the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special 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 prospect 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 well pleased if the gentlemen were richer, but he has no other fault to find. Money, you know, coming down with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable operation, and it streightens him as to many things. However, I do not mean to say they have not a right to it. It is very fit they should have daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me. Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match. She never did, you know. But she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now."

"Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove," exclaimed Anne, "should be happy in their children's marriages. They do 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."

Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's following the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard enough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in its happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none of the ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.

The visit passed off altogether in high good humour. Mary was in excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four horses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that she was exactly in a temper to admire everything 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 invitation was given to the two present, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady 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 consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an eagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.

They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome from each. Henrietta was exactly in that state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody 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 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 recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts; from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.

A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled: a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove, and Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth. The appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment. It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again. Their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate 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 rational dependence:--"Surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere long. We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every moment's 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 seemed deep in talk. Who is it? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot himself."

"No," cried Anne, quickly, "it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till to-morrow."

As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret that she had said so much, simple as it was.

Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin, began talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting still more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to come and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to be cool and unconcerned. Her distress returned, however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret. It was evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.

"Do come, Anne," cried Mary, "come and look 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 embarrassment, 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, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an appearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally opposite interest, 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 visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began with--

"Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night. A'n't I a good boy? I know you love a play; and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play. Have not I done well, mother?"

Mrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming--

"Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing? Take a box for to-morrow night! Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden Place to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal family connexions, 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 connexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened on either side that was not announced immediately. We are quite near relations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with! Every attention is due to Mr Elliot. Consider, my father's heir: the future representative of the family."

"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," cried Charles. "I am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising sun. If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it scandalous to go for the sake of his heir. What is Mr Elliot to me?" The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain Wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul; and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to herself.

Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious and half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she, invariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make it known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she should not think herself very well used, if they went to the play without her. Mrs Musgrove interposed.

"We had better put it off. Charles, you had much better go back and change the box for Tuesday. It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's; and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play, if Miss Anne could not be with us."

Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so 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 bare-faced design, by Anne.

"You have not been long enough in Bath," said he, "to enjoy the evening parties of the place."

"Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player."

"You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes."

"I am not yet so much changed," cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction. After waiting a few moments he said, and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, "It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a half is a period."

Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.

They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her.

Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarming sounds were heard; other visitors 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!

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 herself, the "Miss Elliot at home," were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth. The truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his. The past was nothing. The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about well in her drawing-room. The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.

The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to Anne. She could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite acknowledgement 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 an 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 everybody!" whispered Mary very audibly. "I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card out of his hand."

Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself into a momentary expression of 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 more, and fit only for home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose.

Promising to be with them the whole of the following morning, therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to Camden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the busy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow's party, the frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually improving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the most completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself with the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come or not? They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together. She generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the 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 there was guilt in Mrs Clay's face as she listened. It was transient: cleared away in an instant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of having, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to his lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter. She exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:--

"Oh! dear! very true. Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I met with Mr Elliot in Bath Street. I was never more astonished. He turned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard. He had been prevented setting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being determined not to be delayed in his return. He wanted to know how early he might be admitted to-morrow. He was full of 'to-morrow,' and it is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of my head."



Chapter 23

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.

She could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends' account, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to attempt the walk. When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to the proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time, nor the 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 Musgrove to keep her there till they returned. She had only to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little before the morning closed. There was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain Wentworth said--

"We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you will give me materials."

Materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly turning his back to 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 thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing many undesirable particulars; such as, "how Mr Musgrove and my brother Hayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter had said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what had occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished, and what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards persuaded to think might do very well," and a great deal in the same style of open-hearted communication: minutiae which, even with every advantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not give, could be properly interesting only to the principals. Mrs Croft was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very sensibly. Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear.

"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet, altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for Charles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement."

"That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft. "I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. I always think that no mutual--"

"Oh! 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 unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can."

Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her.

The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion.

Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed 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 remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He 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."

"It was not in her nature. She doted on him."

"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved."

Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as 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 privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed" (with a faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this."

"We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught.

"Have you finished your letter?" said Captain 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 whenever you are. I am in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne,) "well supplied, and want for nothing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot," (lowering his voice,) "as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No man and woman, would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men."

"Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything."

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"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 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 himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!" pressing his own with emotion.

"Oh!" cried Anne eagerly, "I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of everything 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 quarrelling 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 engagement with your friend. To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to Anne.) "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?"

Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully.

"Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute."

Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to 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 returning; the door opened, it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, 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 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. Anything was possible, anything 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 overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was 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 had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both."

"Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going."

"Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me."

"To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, 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 apparent.

They were on 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 movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said--

"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?"

"I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, 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 your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop."

There could not be an objection. There could be only the 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 immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, 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 projected; 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 housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, 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 today there could scarcely be an end.

She had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment. That had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything 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 irresistible 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 unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do 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 understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which Louisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. There, he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind. There he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in his way.

From that period his penance had become severe. He had no sooner been free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of Louisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.

"I found," said he, "that I was considered by Harville an engaged man! That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual attachment. I was startled and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others might have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--I was no longer at my own disposal. I was hers in honour if she wished it. I had been unguarded. I had not thought seriously on this subject before. I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be trying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill effects. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences."

He found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him were what the Harvilles supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme, and await her complete recovery elsewhere. He would gladly weaken, by any fair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while to return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.

"I was six weeks with Edward," said he, "and saw him happy. I could have no other pleasure. I deserved none. He enquired after you very particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter."

Anne smiled, and let it pass. It was too pleasing a blunder for a reproach. It is something for a woman to be assured, in her eight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier youth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to Anne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the result, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.

He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the 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 dreadful. Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope? You were single. It 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 despondency, were dwelt on with energy.

"To see you," cried he, "in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match! To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared? How could I look on without agony? Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had once done--was it not all against me?"

"You should have distinguished," replied Anne. "You should not have suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different. If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated."

"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," he replied, "but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year. I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by 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 everything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment.

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 commonplace 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 Musgroves, there was the happy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted intercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at conversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral and Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest, which the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain Wentworth, some moments of communications 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 greenhouse plants, that she said--

"I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of the right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe that I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly right in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you do now. To me, she was in the place of a parent. Do not mistake me, however. I am not saying that she did not err in her advice. It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. But I mean, that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience. I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion."

He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her, replied, as if in cool deliberation--

"Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time. I trust to being in charity with her soon. But I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?"

"Would I!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.

"Good God!" he cried, "you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than myself. 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."



Chapter 24

Who can be in doubt of what followed? When any two young people take it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort. This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing down every opposition? They might in fact, have borne down a great deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness and warmth. Sir Walter made no objection, and 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 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-regulated mind. There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do, than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up a new set of opinions and of hopes.

There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in others can equal, and Lady 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 immediately gratified by the circumstance. It was creditable to have a sister married, and she might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the connexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own sister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable that Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain Benwick or Charles Hayter. She had something to suffer, perhaps, when they came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look forward to, of powerful consolation. Anne had no Uppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family; and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet, she would not change situations with Anne.

It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied with her situation, for a change is not very probable there. She had soon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of proper condition has since presented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes which sunk with him.

The news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most unexpectedly. It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his best hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a son-in-law's rights would have given. But, though discomfited and 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 soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his protection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been playing, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out by one artful woman, at least.

Mrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming longer for Sir Walter. She has abilities, however, as well as affections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or hers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from being the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at last into making her the wife of Sir William.

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 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 very 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 improvement of income, with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have bid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity. She might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy. Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart. Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's affection. His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim her sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance.
    
    CHAPTER I.
    
    
    It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
    of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
    
    However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
    first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
    of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful
    property of some one or other of their daughters.
    
    "My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that
    Netherfield Park is let at last?"
    
    Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
    
    "But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
    told me all about it."
    
    Mr. Bennet made no answer.
    
    "Do not you want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.
    
    "_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."
    
    This was invitation enough.
    
    "Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
    by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
    down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
    delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is
    to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be
    in the house by the end of next week."
    
    "What is his name?"
    
    "Bingley."
    
    "Is he married or single?"
    
    "Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four
    or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"
    
    "How so? how can it affect them?"
    
    "My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You
    must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."
    
    "Is that his design in settling here?"
    
    "Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
    _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
    soon as he comes."
    
    "I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
    them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
    as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the
    party."
    
    "My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
    I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has
    five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own
    beauty."
    
    "In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."
    
    "But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
    the neighbourhood."
    
    "It is more than I engage for, I assure you."
    
    "But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
    be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go,
    merely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new
    comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit
    him, if you do not."
    
    "You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
    glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
    hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though
    I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."
    
    "I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
    others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
    good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the
    preference."
    
    "They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are
    all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
    quickness than her sisters."
    
    "Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take
    delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves."
    
    "You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
    are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
    these twenty years at least."
    
    "Ah! you do not know what I suffer."

    
    "But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
    thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."
    
    "It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not
    visit them."
    
    "Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
    all."
    
    Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
    reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had
    been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
    was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding,
    little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she
    fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
    daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER II.
    
    
    Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
    had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his
    wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
    paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
    manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
    suddenly addressed her with,
    
    "I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy."
    
    "We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother
    resentfully, "since we are not to visit."
    
    "But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the
    assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him."
    
    "I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
    of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
    of her."
    
    "No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do
    not depend on her serving you."
    
    Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain
    herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
    
    "Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little
    compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces."
    
    "Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times
    them ill."
    
    "I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully.
    
    "When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?"
    
    "To-morrow fortnight."
    
    "Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back
    till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
    for she will not know him herself."
    
    "Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
    Mr. Bingley to _her_."
    
    "Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
    myself; how can you be so teazing?"
    
    "I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
    very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
    fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after
    all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as
    she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
    take it on myself."
    
    The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense,
    nonsense!"
    
    "What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do
    you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
    them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
    Mary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection I know, and read great
    books, and make extracts."
    
    Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.
    
    "While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr.
    Bingley."
    
    "I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.
    
    "I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so before? If I
    had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on
    him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
    cannot escape the acquaintance now."
    
    The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
    Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy
    was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
    while.
    
    "How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
    persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
    neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
    good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said
    a word about it till now."
    
    "Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse," said Mr. Bennet; and,
    as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
    
    "What an excellent father you have, girls," said she, when the door was
    shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
    or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so
    pleasant I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but
    for your sakes, we would do any thing. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
    the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
    ball."
    
    "Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
    youngest, I'm the tallest."
    
    The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
    return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
    dinner.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER III.
    
    
    Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
    daughters, could ask on the subject was sufficient to draw from her
    husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
    in various ways; with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
    distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at
    last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour
    Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
    delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
    agreeable, and to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
    with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
    dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
    hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.
    
    "If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,"
    said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all the others equally well
    married, I shall have nothing to wish for."
    
    In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten
    minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
    admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard
    much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
    fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
    window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.
    
    An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had
    Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
    housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
    was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to
    accept the honour of their invitation, &c. Mrs. Bennet was quite
    disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
    so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
    he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
    settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
    little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a
    large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
    was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
    The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the
    day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve, he had brought
    only six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when
    the party entered the assembly room, it consisted of only five
    altogether; Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
    another young man.
    
    Mr. Bingley was good looking and gentleman-like; he had a pleasant
    countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
    with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
    looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
    of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien; and
    the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after
    his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
    pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was
    much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
    admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
    which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
    proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his
    large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
    forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
    with his friend.
    
    Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
    people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
    was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one
    himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
    themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
    only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
    introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
    walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
    His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in
    the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.
    Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
    his general behaviour, was sharpened into particular resentment, by his
    having slighted one of her daughters.
    
    Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
    down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
    standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and
    Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his
    friend to join it.
    
    "Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you
    standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
    dance."
    
    "I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
    particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it
    would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
    another woman in the room, whom it would not be a punishment to me to
    stand up with."
    
    "I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Bingley, "for a
    kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my
    life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
    uncommonly pretty."
    
    "_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr.
    Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
    
    "Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
    of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
    dare say, very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."
    
    "Which do you mean?" and turning round, he looked for a moment at
    Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said,
    "She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no
    humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
    by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
    smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."
    
    Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
    remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story
    however with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
    playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous.
    
    The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
    Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
    party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
    distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this, as her
    mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
    pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
    accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
    fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they
    had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned therefore in good
    spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
    were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a
    book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
    good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised
    such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife's
    views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he
    had a very different story to hear.
    
    "Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most
    delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
    Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Every body said how well
    she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
    her twice. Only think of _that_ my dear; he actually danced with her
    twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
    time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
    up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all: indeed, nobody
    can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
    down the dance. So, he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and
    asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss
    King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane
    again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger----"
    
    "If he had had any compassion for _me_," cried her husband impatiently,
    "he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
    his partners. Oh! that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!"
    
    "Oh! my dear," continued Mrs. Bennet, "I am quite delighted with him. He
    is so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never
    in my life saw any thing more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the
    lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown----"
    
    Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
    description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
    of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
    exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
    
    "But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not
    suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
    all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
    him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
    great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
    dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER IV.
    
    
    When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
    her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much
    she admired him.
    
    "He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible, good
    humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much ease,
    with such perfect good breeding!"
    
    "He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth, "which a young man ought
    likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete."
    
    "I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
    did not expect such a compliment."
    
    "Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between
    us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
    could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
    seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in
    the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
    very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
    stupider person."
    
    "Dear Lizzy!"
    
    "Oh! you are a great deal too apt you know, to like people in general.
    You never see a fault in any body. All the world are good and agreeable
    in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life."
    
    "I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always speak
    what I think."
    
    "I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
    good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
    others! Affectation of candour is common enough;--one meets it every
    where. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the good
    of every body's character and make it still better, and say nothing of
    the bad--belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man's sisters too,
    do you? Their manners are not equal to his."
    
    "Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
    converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother and keep
    his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
    neighbour in her."
    
    Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
    the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
    quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and
    with a judgment too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very
    little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not
    deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of
    being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were
    rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private
    seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the
    habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people
    of rank; and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of
    themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in
    the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their
    memories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been
    acquired by trade.
    
    Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly an hundred
    thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate,
    but did not live to do it.--Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
    sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
    good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
    who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
    remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
    purchase.
    
    His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but
    though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
    means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
    married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
    his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
    age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to
    look at Netherfield House. He did look at it and into it for half an
    hour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied
    with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.
    
    Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a
    great opposition of character.--Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
    easiness, openness, ductility of his temper, though no disposition could
    offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never
    appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard Bingley had the
    firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In
    understanding Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient,
    but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
    fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In
    that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of
    being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offence.
    
    The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
    characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier
    girls in his life; every body had been most kind and attentive to him,
    there had been no formality, no stiffness, he had soon felt acquainted
    with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel
    more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people
    in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had
    felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or
    pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too
    much.
    
    Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired
    her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom
    they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
    established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorised by such
    commendation to think of her as he chose.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER V.
    
    
    Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
    were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade
    in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune and risen to the
    honour of knighthood by an address to the King, during his mayoralty.
    The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a
    disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; and
    quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a
    mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
    could think with pleasure of his own importance, and unshackled by
    business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For
    though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the
    contrary, he was all attention to every body. By nature inoffensive,
    friendly and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made him
    courteous.
    
    Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
    valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet.--They had several children. The
    eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven,
    was Elizabeth's intimate friend.
    
    That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a
    ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly
    brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.
    
    "_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet with civil
    self-command to Miss Lucas. "_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice."
    
    "Yes;--but he seemed to like his second better."
    
    "Oh!--you mean Jane, I suppose--because he danced with her twice. To be
    sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he
    _did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something
    about Mr. Robinson."
    
    "Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not
    I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
    assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty
    women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his
    answering immediately to the last question--Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet
    beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point."
    
    "Upon my word!--Well, that was very decided indeed--that does seem as
    if----but however, it may all come to nothing you know."
    
    "_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza," said
    Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
    is he?--Poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_."
    
    "I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
    ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite
    a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he
    sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips."
    
    "Are you quite sure, Ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?" said
    Jane.--"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."
    
    "Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
    could not help answering her;--but she said he seemed very angry at
    being spoke to."
    
    "Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that he never speaks much unless
    among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably
    agreeable."
    
    "I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
    agreeable he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was;
    every body says that he is ate up with pride, and I dare say he had
    heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to
    the ball in a hack chaise."
    
    "I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long," said Miss Lucas, "but I
    wish he had danced with Eliza."
    
    "Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with _him_,
    if I were you."
    
    "I believe, Ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him."
    
    "His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not offend _me_ so much as pride
    often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
    very fine a young man, with family, fortune, every thing in his favour,
    should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_
    to be proud."
    
    "That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive
    _his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_."
    
    "Pride," observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
    reflections, "is a very common failing I believe. By all that I have
    ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human
    nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us
    who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
    quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
    things, though the words are often used synonimously. A person may be
    proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of
    ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
    
    "If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a young Lucas who came with his
    sisters, "I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
    foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day."
    
    "Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought," said Mrs.
    Bennet; "and if I were to see you at it I should take away your bottle
    directly."
    
    The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
    would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VI.
    
    
    The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
    was returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the
    good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
    found to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a
    wish of being better acquainted with _them_, was expressed towards the
    two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest
    pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of
    every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
    though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
    all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was
    generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to
    _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
    which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
    way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
    was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
    united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
    uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the
    suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss
    Lucas.
    
    "It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose
    on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
    so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
    from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
    it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the
    dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
    attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
    _begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
    very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
    encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew _more_
    affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
    may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."
    
    "But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can
    perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to
    discover it too."
    
    "Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."
    
    "But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
    it, he must find it out."
    
    "Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane
    meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they
    always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
    every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
    therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his
    attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling
    in love as much as she chuses."
    
    "Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in
    question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined
    to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
    these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she
    cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its
    reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
    dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
    and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite
    enough to make her understand his character."
    
    "Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
    only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
    remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four
    evenings may do a great deal."
    
    "Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both
    like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
    leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."
    
    "Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if
    she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
    chance of happiness, as if she were to be studying his character for a
    twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
    the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or
    ever so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the
    least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
    have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
    possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
    life."
    
    "You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
    sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself."
    
    Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
    was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
    interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
    allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
    ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
    sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had
    hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
    uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
    this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
    detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
    in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
    pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
    of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
    this she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made
    himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough
    to dance with.
    
    He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
    with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
    drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
    assembled.
    
    "What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my
    conversation with Colonel Forster?"
    
    "That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."
    
    "But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
    what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
    being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him."
    
    On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
    any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
    a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
    turned to him and said,
    
    "Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well
    just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
    Meryton?"
    
    "With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady
    energetic."
    
    "You are severe on us."
    
    "It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going
    to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."
    
    "You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
    to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken
    a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would
    really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
    hearing the very best performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
    she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing
    at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of
    course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I
    shall keep mine to swell my song."
    
    Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
    or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she
    would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
    sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
    the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
    impatient for display.
    
    Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
    application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
    manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
    had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
    much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
    end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
    Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with
    some of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing
    at one end of the room.
    
    Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
    passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
    much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas
    was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.
    
    "What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There
    is nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first
    refinements of polished societies."
    
    "Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue
    amongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can
    dance."
    
    Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully;" he
    continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--"and I doubt
    not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy."
    
    "You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir."
    
    "Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
    you often dance at St. James's?"
    
    "Never, sir."
    
    "Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?"
    
    "It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it."
    
    "You have a house in town, I conclude?"
    
    Mr. Darcy bowed.
    
    "I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself--for I am fond of
    superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
    London would agree with Lady Lucas."
    
    He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to
    make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
    struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
    her,
    
    "My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow
    me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You
    cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you."
    And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though
    extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
    drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,
    
    "Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.--I entreat you
    not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."
    
    Mr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her
    hand; but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all
    shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
    
    "You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me
    the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
    amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
    for one half hour."
    
    "Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.
    
    "He is indeed--but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we
    cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a
    partner?"
    
    Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
    injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
    complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,
    
    "I can guess the subject of your reverie."
    
    "I should imagine not."
    
    "You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
    in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
    I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the
    nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people!--What would
    I give to hear your strictures on them!"
    
    "Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
    agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
    which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."
    
    Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
    would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
    Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,
    
    "Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
    
    "Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment.
    How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you
    joy?"
    
    "That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
    imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
    to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy."
    
    "Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
    absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and
    of course she will be always at Pemberley with you."
    
    He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to
    entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her
    that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VII.
    
    
    Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
    thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in
    default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
    fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
    the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
    had left her four thousand pounds.
    
    She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their

    father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
    London in a respectable line of trade.
    
    The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
    convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
    thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
    to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
    Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
    their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
    better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
    hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
    the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
    from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
    news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
    neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
    head quarters.
    
    Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting
    intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the
    officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret,
    and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips
    visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity
    unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.
    Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their
    mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of
    an ensign.
    
    After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
    Bennet coolly observed,
    
    "From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
    of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
    I am now convinced."
    
    Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
    indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and
    her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
    next morning to London.
    
    "I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so
    ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
    of any body's children, it should not be of my own however."
    
    "If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible of it."
    
    "Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."
    
    "This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
    had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
    so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
    foolish."
    
    "My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
    their father and mother.--When they get to our age I dare say they will
    not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I
    liked a red coat myself very well--and indeed so I do still at my heart;
    and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should
    want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel
    Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his
    regimentals."
    
    "Mama," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
    Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
    came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."
    
    Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a
    note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
    for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
    eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,
    
    "Well, Jane, who is it from? what is it about? what does he say? Well,
    Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love."
    
    "It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud.
    
         "My dear Friend,
    
         "If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and
         me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our
         lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never
         end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of
         this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.
         Yours ever,
    
         "CAROLINE BINGLEY."
    
    "With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
    _that_."
    
    "Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."
    
    "Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.
    
    "No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
    rain; and then you must stay all night."
    
    "That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were sure that
    they would not offer to send her home."
    
    "Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton;
    and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."
    
    "I had much rather go in the coach."
    
    "But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
    wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?"
    
    "They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."
    
    "But if you have got them to-day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's purpose
    will be answered."
    
    She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
    were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
    mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad
    day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it
    rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
    delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
    Jane certainly could not come back.
    
    "This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet, more than
    once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next
    morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
    contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
    brought the following note for Elizabeth:
    
         "My dearest Lizzy,
    
         "I FIND myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
         imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will
         not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on
         my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear
         of his having been to me--and excepting a sore-throat and head-ache
         there is not much the matter with me.
    
         "Yours, &c."
    
    "Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
    aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she
    should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
    Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."
    
    "Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little
    trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays
    there, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the
    carriage."
    
    Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
    the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horse-woman, walking
    was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
    
    "How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of such a
    thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
    there."
    
    "I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want."
    
    "Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father, "to send for the
    horses?"
    
    "No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing,
    when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner."
    
    "I admire the activity of your benevolence," observed Mary, "but every
    impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
    exertion should always be in proportion to what is required."
    
    "We will go as far as Meryton with you," said Catherine and
    Lydia.--Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set
    off together.
    
    "If we make haste," said Lydia, as they walked along, "perhaps we may
    see something of Captain Carter before he goes."
    
    In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
    of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
    field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
    over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within
    view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face
    glowing with the warmth of exercise.
    
    She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
    assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of
    surprise.--That she should have walked three miles so early in the day,
    in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs.
    Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her
    in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them;
    and in their brother's manners there was something better than
    politeness; there was good humour and kindness.--Mr. Darcy said very
    little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between
    admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion,
    and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The
    latter was thinking only of his breakfast.
    
    Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
    Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well
    enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
    immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
    alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed
    for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
    however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together,
    could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the
    extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
    her.
    
    When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
    began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
    solicitude they shewed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
    examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a
    violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
    advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice

    was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
    ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were
    the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact
    nothing to do elsewhere.
    
    When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go; and very
    unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
    wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
    in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
    of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the
    present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was
    dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring
    back a supply of clothes.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VIII.
    
    
    At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past six
    Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then
    poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
    much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
    favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
    this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
    shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
    being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
    indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored
    Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.
    
    Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
    regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
    attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
    herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
    others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
    engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
    Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
    eat, drink, and play at cards, who when he found her prefer a plain dish
    to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.
    
    When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
    began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
    pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
    she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst
    thought the same, and added,
    
    "She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
    walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really

    looked almost wild."
    
    "She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
    nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
    country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!"
    
    "Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
    in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
    hide it, not doing its office."
    
    "Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was
    all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
    well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat
    quite escaped my notice."
    
    "_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am
    inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such
    an exhibition."
    
    "Certainly not."
    
    "To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
    above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by
    it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence,
    a most country town indifference to decorum."
    
    "It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said
    Bingley.
    
    "I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper,
    "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine
    eyes."
    
    "Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise."--A
    short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.
    
    "I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet
    girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such
    a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no
    chance of it."
    
    "I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in
    Meryton."
    
    "Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside."
    
    "That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
    
    "If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it
    would not make them one jot less agreeable."

    
    "But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
    consideration in the world," replied Darcy.
    
    To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
    hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
    their dear friend's vulgar relations.
    
    With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on
    leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
    She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
    late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and
    when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
    down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
    party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
    them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
    excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
    below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
    
    "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular."
    
    "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great
    reader and has no pleasure in anything else."
    
    "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am
    _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."
    
    "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and
    I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well."
    
    Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table
    where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
    others; all that his library afforded.
    
    "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
    credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
    than I ever look into."
    
    Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
    in the room.
    
    "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left
    so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at
    Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"
    
    "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many
    generations."
    
    "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
    books."
    
    "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
    these."
    
    "Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
    that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
    half as delightful as Pemberley."
    
    "I wish it may."
    
    "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
    neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
    finer county in England than Derbyshire."
    
    "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."
    
    "I am talking of possibilities, Charles."
    
    "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
    Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."
    
    Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little
    attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near
    the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest
    sister, to observe the game.
    
    "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will
    she be as tall as I am?"
    
    "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
    rather taller."
    
    "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
    so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely
    accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is
    exquisite."
    
    "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience
    to be so very accomplished, as they all are."
    
    "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"
    
    "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net
    purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I
    never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
    informed that she was very accomplished."
    
    "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has
    too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
    otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very
    far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
    cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my
    acquaintance, that are really accomplished."
    
    "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.
    
    "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your
    idea of an accomplished woman."
    
    "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it."
    
    "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really
    esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
    with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
    dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all
    this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
    walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
    will be but half deserved."
    
    "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet
    add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
    extensive reading."
    
    "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
    I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."
    
    "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all
    this?"
    
    "_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and
    application, and elegance, as you describe, united."
    
    Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
    implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
    answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
    bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
    conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
    room.
    
    "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is
    one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other
    sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
    succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."
    
    "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
    "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
    to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
    despicable."
    
    Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
    continue the subject.
    
    Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
    that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for
    immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
    be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
    eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so
    unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
    that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
    were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters

    declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
    however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to
    his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
    possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER IX.
    
    
    Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
    morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
    enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
    and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
    sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
    note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
    own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
    its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
    two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
    
    Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
    very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
    not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
    restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
    would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried
    home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
    it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
    Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
    attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
    that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
    
    "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be
    moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
    a little longer on your kindness."
    
    "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
    sure, will not hear of her removal."
    
    "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
    "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she
    remains with us."
    
    Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
    
    "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not
    know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a
    vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
    always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
    temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to
    _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect
    over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is
    equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I
    hope, though you have but a short lease."
    
    "Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I
    should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
    minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here."
    
    "That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth.
    
    "You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her.
    
    "Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly."
    
    "I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
    through I am afraid is pitiful."
    
    "That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep,
    intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours."
    
    "Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in
    the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."
    
    "I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a
    studier of character. It must be an amusing study."
    
    "Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
    least that advantage."
    
    "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for
    such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined
    and unvarying society."
    
    "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
    observed in them for ever."
    
    "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a
    country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
    going on in the country as in town."
    
    Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
    turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
    victory over him, continued her triumph.
    
    "I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for
    my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
    pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?"
    
    "When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and
    when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
    advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."
    
    "Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
    gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing
    at all."
    
    "Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her
    mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not

    such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which
    you must acknowledge to be true."
    
    "Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with
    many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
    neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families."
    
    Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
    countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards
    Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
    saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
    Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.
    
    "Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
    William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so
    genteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every
    body.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy
    themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the
    matter."

    
    "Did Charlotte dine with you?"
    
    "No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For
    my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own
    work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to
    judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I
    assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think
    Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend."
    
    "She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley.
    
    "Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
    has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
    of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body
    better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own
    partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my
    brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my
    sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.
    But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he
    wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."
    
    "And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has
    been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
    discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"
    
    "I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy.
    
    "Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is
    strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
    am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."
    
    Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
    tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
    speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
    Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
    Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
    unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
    civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
    indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
    soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
    her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
    each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
    youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
    into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
    
    Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
    and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
    affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
    animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
    attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own
    easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
    equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
    abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
    shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
    sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.
    
    "I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
    your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of
    the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill."
    
    Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to
    wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter

    would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she
    added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
    Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not."
    
    Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
    instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
    remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
    could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
    all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER X.
    
    
    The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
    Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
    continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
    their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear.
    Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
    the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by
    messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
    Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
    
    Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
    attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
    commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness
    of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
    with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
    exactly in unison with her opinion of each.
    
    "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"
    
    He made no answer.
    
    "You write uncommonly fast."
    
    "You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."
    
    "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the
    year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!"
    
    "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours."
    
    "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."
    
    "I have already told her so once, by your desire."
    
    "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
    pens remarkably well."
    
    "Thank you--but I always mend my own."
    
    "How can you contrive to write so even?"
    
    He was silent.
    
    "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,
    and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
    little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
    Grantley's."
    
    "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At
    present I have not room to do them justice."
    
    "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
    always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"
    
    "They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me
    to determine."
    
    "It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with
    ease, cannot write ill."
    
    "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her
    brother--"because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
    words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?"
    
    "My style of writing is very different from yours."
    
    "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way
    imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest."
    
    "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
    means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."
    
    "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."
    
    "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of
    humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
    indirect boast."
    
    "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?"
    
    "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in
    writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
    thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think
    at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with
    quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any
    attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
    Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield
    you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
    panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
    laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
    undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?"
    
    "Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the
    foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I
    believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
    moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
    precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies."
    
    "I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you
    would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
    dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
    mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay
    till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
    go--and, at another word, might stay a month."
    
    "You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did
    not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much
    more than he did himself."
    
    "I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my
    friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
    afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
    intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a
    circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
    could."
    
    "Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention
    as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"
    
    "Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for
    himself."
    
    "You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but
    which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand
    according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that
    the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the
    delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one
    argument in favour of its propriety."
    
    "To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
    with you."
    
    "To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
    either."
    
    "You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
    friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
    one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
    one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
    supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
    circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
    thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
    where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
    very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
    with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?"
    
    "Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange
    with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
    appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
    between the parties?"
    
    "By all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not
    forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
    weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
    you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
    myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
    know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
    particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening
    when he has nothing to do."
    
    Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
    rather offended; and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
    resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
    brother for talking such nonsense.
    
    "I see your design, Bingley," said his friend.--"You dislike an
    argument, and want to silence this."
    
    "Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
    Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
    thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."
    
    "What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
    Darcy had much better finish his letter."
    
    Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
    
    When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
    for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to
    the piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
    the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
    seated herself.
    
    Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed
    Elizabeth could not help observing as she turned over some music books
    that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
    on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
    admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because
    he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however
    at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about
    her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than
    in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
    him too little to care for his approbation.
    
    After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a
    lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
    Elizabeth, said to her--
    
    "Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
    opportunity of dancing a reel?"
    
    She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
    surprise at her silence.
    
    "Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately
    determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
    that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
    delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
    their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell
    you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
    you dare."
    
    "Indeed I do not dare."
    
    Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
    gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
    manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had
    never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
    believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
    should be in some danger.
    
    Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
    anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some
    assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
    
    She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
    their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
    
    "I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the
    next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
    desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
    and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
    the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
    check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
    which your lady possesses."
    
    "Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?"
    
    "Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be
    placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle
    the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different
    lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it
    taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"
    
    "It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
    colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be
    copied."
    
    At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and
    Elizabeth herself.
    
    "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some
    confusion, lest they had been overheard.
    
    "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away
    without telling us that you were coming out."
    
    Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
    by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness
    and immediately said,--
    
    "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
    avenue."
    
    But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
    laughingly answered,
    
    "No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to
    uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
    fourth. Good bye."
    
    She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
    being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
    as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XI.
    
    
    When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister,
    and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
    drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
    professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
    as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
    Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
    entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
    at their acquaintance with spirit.
    
    But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object.
    Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had
    something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
    himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst
    also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness
    and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
    attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
    should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to
    the other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the
    door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else.
    Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
    delight.
    
    When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
    card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
    Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
    petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the
    silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr.
    Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
    sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
    and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and
    rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
    Bennet.
    
    Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
    Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was
    perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
    could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
    question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
    amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
    second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it
    is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
    enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a
    book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
    an excellent library."
    
    No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
    cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing
    her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
    towards him and said,
    
    "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
    Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
    the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not
    some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
    pleasure."
    
    "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses,
    before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and
    as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my
    cards."
    
    "I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were
    carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
    tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
    more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the
    day."
    
    "Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
    near so much like a ball."
    
    Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about
    the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at
    whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation
    of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to
    Elizabeth, said,
    
    "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
    turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting
    so long in one attitude."
    
    Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
    succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
    up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
    Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
    directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing,
    that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and
    down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them
    would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could
    be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
    him?
    
    "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe
    on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing
    about it."
    
    Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any
    thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two
    motives.
    
    "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon
    as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing
    the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret
    affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
    appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be
    completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better
    as I sit by the fire."
    
    "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so

    abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?"
    
    "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We
    can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at
    him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done."
    
    "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not
    yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No,
    no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose
    ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.
    Darcy may hug himself."
    
    "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an
    uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
    be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a
    laugh."
    
    "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The
    wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions,
    may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a
    joke."
    
    "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--"there are such people, but I hope I am
    not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies
    and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I
    laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what
    you are without."
    
    "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of
    my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
    understanding to ridicule."
    
    "Such as vanity and pride."
    
    "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
    superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."
    
    Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
    
    "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss
    Bingley;--"and pray what is the result?"
    
    "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
    himself without disguise."
    
    "No"--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
    but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
    for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the
    convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of
    others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My
    feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
    would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost
    for ever."
    
    "_That_ is a failing indeed!"--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment
    _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I
    really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."
    
    "There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
    evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."
    
    "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body."
    
    "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand
    them."
    
    "Do let us have a little music,"--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
    conversation in which she had no share.--"Louisa, you will not mind my
    waking Mr. Hurst."
    
    Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was
    opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for
    it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XII.
    
    
    In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
    next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
    them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on
    her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
    would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive
    them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
    least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
    Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
    before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
    and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very
    well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively
    resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
    contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,
    she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at
    length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
    that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
    
    The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was
    said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on
    Jane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was
    then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike
    of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
    
    The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
    soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
    safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
    she felt herself to be right.
    
    To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
    Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
    Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself.
    He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
    should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of
    influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
    suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
    in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
    ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at
    one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most
    conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
    
    On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
    all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
    very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
    after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to
    see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
    tenderly, she even shook hands with the former.--Elizabeth took leave of
    the whole party in the liveliest spirits.
    
    They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
    wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
    trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again.--But their
    father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really
    glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
    evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its
    animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and
    Elizabeth.
    
    They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human
    nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations
    of thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had
    information for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much
    had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of
    the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been
    flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going
    to be married.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIII.
    
    
    "I hope, my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
    breakfast the next morning, "that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
    because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party."
    
    "Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming I am sure,
    unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and I hope _my_ dinners
    are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home."
    
    "The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger." Mrs.
    Bennet's eyes sparkled.--"A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley
    I am sure. Why Jane--you never dropt a word of this; you sly thing!
    Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley.--But--good
    lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia,
    my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill, this moment."
    
    "It is _not_ Mr. Bingley," said her husband; "it is a person whom I
    never saw in the whole course of my life."
    
    This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
    eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once.
    
    After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained.
    "About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I
    answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring
    early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,
    may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."
    
    "Oh! my dear," cried his wife, "I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
    Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
    in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
    children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
    to do something or other about it."
    
    Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail.
    They had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs.
    Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail
    bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
    five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
    
    "It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet, "and
    nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
    But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little
    softened by his manner of expressing himself."
    
    "No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it was very impertinent of
    him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
    friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father
    did before him?"
    
    "Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
    head, as you will hear."
    
         _Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,
    
         15th October._
    
         DEAR SIR,
    
         The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
         father, always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the
         misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the
         breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing
         lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good
         terms with any one, with whom it had always pleased him to be at
         variance.--"There, Mrs. Bennet."--My mind however is now made up on
         the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been
         so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right
         Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh,
         whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable
         rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to
         demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be
         ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are
         instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I
         feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in
         all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds
         I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly
         commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the
         entail of Longbourn estate, will be kindly overlooked on your side,
         and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be
         otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your
         amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to
         assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends,--but
         of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me
         into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on
         you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and
         shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday
         se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as
         Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a
         Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the
         duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to
         your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
    
         WILLIAM COLLINS."
    
    "At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,"
    said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most
    conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will
    prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
    indulgent as to let him come to us again."
    
    "There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he
    is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
    discourage him."
    
    "Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean
    to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
    credit."
    
    Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady
    Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
    his parishioners whenever it were required.
    
    "He must be an oddity, I think," said she. "I cannot make him
    out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he
    mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he
    would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?"
    
    "No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
    reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
    letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him."
    
    "In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem
    defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
    think it is well expressed."
    
    To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
    degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
    come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had
    received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for
    their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,
    and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which
    astonished her husband and daughters.
    
    Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
    politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
    ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need
    of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall,
    heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and
    stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
    before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
    daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this
    instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did
    not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage.
    This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but
    Mrs. Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,
    
    "You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may
    prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
    oddly."
    
    "You allude perhaps to the entail of this estate."
    
    "Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you
    must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things
    I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates
    will go when once they come to be entailed."
    
    "I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,--and
    could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing
    forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come
    prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps
    when we are better acquainted----"
    
    He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
    other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
    hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture were examined and praised;
    and his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's
    heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
    own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and
    he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its
    cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured
    him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good
    cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged
    pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
    herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a
    quarter of an hour.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIV.
    
    
    During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
    were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
    guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to
    shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
    Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his
    comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
    better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
    to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
    he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a
    person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself
    experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
    approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of
    preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
    and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
    quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many
    people he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her.
    She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she
    made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
    neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or
    two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
    marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had
    once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly
    approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
    to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs.
    
    "That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I
    dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
    in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?"
    
    "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane
    from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."
    
    "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?"
    
    "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
    extensive property."
    
    "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than
    many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?"
    
    "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
    that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the
    handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks
    the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
    constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many
    accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am
    informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
    resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
    to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies."
    
    "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
    court."
    
    "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
    and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived
    the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased
    with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
    offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to
    ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her
    charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most
    elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
    her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and
    it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
    pay."
    
    "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you
    that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
    whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
    moment, or are the result of previous study?"
    
    "They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
    sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
    compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
    give them as unstudied an air as possible."
    
    Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
    as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
    maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
    and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in
    his pleasure.
    
    By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to
    take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad
    to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented,
    and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced
    it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging
    pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and
    Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation
    he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and
    before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she
    interrupted him with,
    
    "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard,
    and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so
    herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
    about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."
    
    Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
    Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,
    
    "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books
    of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes
    me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to
    them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin."
    
    Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
    backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
    very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.
    Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's
    interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would
    resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his
    young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any
    affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared
    for backgammon.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XV.
    
    
    Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
    been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of
    his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
    miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
    had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
    acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had
    given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good
    deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
    retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
    prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
    Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he
    felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
    mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
    clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
    pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
    
    Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to
    marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
    a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found
    them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
    This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
    estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
    suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
    part.
    
    His plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face
    confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
    was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
    choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter
    of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
    conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
    to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at
    Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
    encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--"As to
    her _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could

    not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her
    _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
    to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged."
    
    Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
    done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
    next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
    
    Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
    two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
    the day before, was now high in her good graces.
    
    Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
    except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
    at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
    and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
    him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
    one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
    Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
    doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
    always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
    Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the
    house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
    was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
    walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
    than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and
    go.
    
    In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
    cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
    the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes
    were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers,
    and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin
    in a shop window, could recal them.
    
    But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
    they had never seen before, of most gentleman-like appearance, walking
    with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very
    Mr. Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire,
    and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air,
    all wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if
    possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of
    wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained
    the pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same
    spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to
    introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day
    before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in
    their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted
    only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was
    greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine
    countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction
    was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a
    readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the
    whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,
    when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were
    seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group,
    the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual
    civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the
    principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on
    purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and
    was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they
    were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth
    happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,
    was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,
    one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,
    touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.
    What could be the meaning of it?--It was impossible to imagine; it was
    impossible not to long to know.
    
    In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
    passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
    
    Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
    Mr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
    pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.
    Philips' throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the
    invitation.
    
    Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two eldest, from
    their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly
    expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own
    carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if
    she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had
    told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield
    because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed
    towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with
    her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more,
    apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with
    her, which he could not help flattering himself however might be
    justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to
    her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good
    breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to
    by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she
    could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had
    brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's
    commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour,
    she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham
    appeared Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation,
    but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the
    officers, who in comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid,
    disagreeable fellows." Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the
    next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
    Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
    would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips
    protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
    tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
    delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
    Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
    with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
    
    As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
    between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or
    both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such
    behaviour than her sister.
    
    Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.
    Philips's manners and politeness. He protested that except Lady
    Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for
    she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even

    pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
    utterly unknown to her before. Something he supposed might be attributed
    to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much
    attention in the whole course of his life.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVI.
    
    
    As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
    aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
    a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
    conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the
    girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
    that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
    the house.
    
    When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
    Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
    struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
    might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour
    at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
    gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings
    was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the
    description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
    that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
    the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
    with the housekeeper's room.
    
    In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
    with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the
    improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
    gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive
    listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
    heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
    soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
    and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
    their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantle-piece, the
    interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last however. The
    gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
    Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
    of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The
    officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
    gentleman-like set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
    Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
    walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips,
    breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.
    
    Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
    turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
    himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
    conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the
    probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest,
    dullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the
    skill of the speaker.
    
    With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the
    officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the
    young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a
    kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most
    abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
    
    When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her
    in return, by sitting down to whist.
    
    "I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall be glad
    to improve myself, for in my situation of life----" Mrs. Philips was
    very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
    
    Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
    received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
    seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
    determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
    she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
    and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in
    particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was
    therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to
    hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to
    be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
    even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly
    relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
    Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
    an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
    
    "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
    drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
    understand."
    
    "Yes," replied Wickham;--"his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten
    thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of
    giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been
    connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy."
    
    Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
    
    "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
    seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
    yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"
    
    "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--"I have spent
    four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
    disagreeable."
    
    "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being
    agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
    too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to
    be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
    astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
    anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family."
    
    "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the
    neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
    Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
    him more favourably spoken of by any one."
    
    "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short
    interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
    their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
    world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
    high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen."
    
    "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
    ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head.
    
    "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is
    likely to be in this country much longer."
    
    "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
    was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
    not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."
    
    "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
    wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
    and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
    avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of
    very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is.
    His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
    that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be
    in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a
    thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
    scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every
    thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory
    of his father."
    
    Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
    all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry.
    
    Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
    neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he
    had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but
    very intelligible gallantry.
    
    "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added,
    "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a
    most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
    farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
    attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.
    Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
    my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
    A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
    now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
    was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
    possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
    were speaking of just now."
    
    "Indeed!"
    
    "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
    living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
    I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
    and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
    elsewhere."
    
    "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could
    his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?"
    
    "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
    give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
    intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
    conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
    to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing.
    Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I
    was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
    less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
    any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I
    may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too
    freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very
    different sort of men, and that he hates me."
    
    "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced."
    
    "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
    can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_."
    
    Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
    ever as he expressed them.
    
    "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what
    can have induced him to behave so cruelly?"
    
    "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
    attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
    less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
    attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not
    a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of
    preference which was often given me."
    
    "I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
    him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be
    despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
    descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
    this!"
    
    After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember
    his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his
    resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must
    be dreadful."
    
    "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can
    hardly be just to him."
    
    Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To
    treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his
    father!"--She could have added, "A young man too, like _you_, whose very
    countenance may vouch for your being amiable"--but she contented
    herself with "And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from
    childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest
    manner!"
    
    "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest
    part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
    sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
    father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips,
    appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use
    to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the
    Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
    intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
    be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance,
    and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
    voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
    be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself."
    
    "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very
    pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better
    motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for
    dishonesty I must call it."
    
    "It _is_ wonderful,"--replied Wickham,--"for almost all his actions may
    be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has
    connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none
    of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger
    impulses even than pride."
    
    "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?"
    
    "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his
    money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve
    the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what
    his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to
    degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
    Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
    which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful
    guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the
    most attentive and best of brothers."
    
    "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?"
    
    He shook his head.--"I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain
    to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very,
    very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and
    extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her
    amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about
    fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her
    father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her,
    and superintends her education."
    
    After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
    help reverting once more to the first, and saying,
    
    "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
    who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
    be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you
    know Mr. Bingley?"
    
    "Not at all."
    
    "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
    Darcy is."
    
    "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not
    want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
    his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a
    very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride
    never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just,
    sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing
    something for fortune and figure."
    
    The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
    the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
    Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were
    made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point;
    but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured
    her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance,
    that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not
    make herself uneasy.
    
    "I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a
    card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I
    am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
    are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
    Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
    little matters."
    
    Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
    a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
    were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
    
    "Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a
    living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
    notice, but he certainly has not known her long."
    
    "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
    were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy."
    
    "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
    connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
    yesterday."
    
    "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
    believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."
    
    This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
    Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
    affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
    self-destined to another.
    
    "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
    daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
    I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
    patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman."
    
    "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have
    not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
    her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
    reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
    she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
    her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who
    chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of
    the first class."
    
    Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
    they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put
    an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
    Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of
    Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every
    body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
    gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
    think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
    the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as
    they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
    talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
    fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and
    Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
    at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
    that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
    before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVII.
    
    
    Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr.
    Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she
    knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
    Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
    veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The
    possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to
    interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be
    done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and
    throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be
    otherwise explained.
    
    "They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or
    other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
    misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
    conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
    without actual blame on either side."
    
    "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in
    behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
    business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
    somebody."
    
    "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my
    opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light
    it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a
    manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is
    impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his
    character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
    excessively deceived in him? oh! no."
    
    "I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than
    that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me
    last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it
    be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his
    looks."
    
    "It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to
    think."
    
    "I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think."
    
    But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr.
    Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the
    affair became public.
    
    The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this
    conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom
    they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their
    personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was
    fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see
    their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and
    repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their
    separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention;
    avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth,
    and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from
    their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and
    hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.
    
    The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
    female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
    compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by
    receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
    ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the
    society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and
    Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
    Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's
    looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia,
    depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though
    they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr.
    Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and
    a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family
    that she had no disinclination for it.
    
    "While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough.--I
    think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
    Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who
    consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every
    body."
    
    Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did
    not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking
    him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he
    did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's
    amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
    scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke
    either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to
    dance.
    
    "I am by no means of opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a ball of
    this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can
    have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself
    that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins
    in the course of the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting
    yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,--a
    preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right
    cause, and not to any disrespect for her."
    
    Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
    engaged by Wickham for those very dances:--and to have Mr. Collins
    instead! her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help
    for it however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own was per force
    delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as
    good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his
    gallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more.--It now first
    struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of
    being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
    quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.
    The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
    civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
    compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than
    gratified herself, by this effect of her charms, it was not long before
    her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage
    was exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth however did not chuse to
    take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the
    consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and
    till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
    
    If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
    younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time,
    for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was
    such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No
    aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after;--the very shoe-roses
    for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some
    trial of her patience in weather, which totally suspended the
    improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than
    a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday and
    Monday, endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVIII.
    
    
    Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield and looked in
    vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a
    doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of
    meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
    might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than
    usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all
    that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than
    might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the
    dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's
    pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this
    was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
    pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and
    who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business
    the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant
    smile,
    
    "I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if
    he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here."
    
    This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
    Elizabeth, and as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
    Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling
    of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
    disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
    the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to
    make.--Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to
    Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and
    turned away with a degree of ill humour, which she could not wholly
    surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality
    provoked her.
    
    But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
    of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
    spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
    not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to
    the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
    notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of distress;
    they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
    apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
    aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
    partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
    him was ecstacy.
    
    She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
    Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
    were over she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
    her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took
    her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without
    knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
    immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
    mind; Charlotte tried to console her.
    
    "I dare say you will find him very agreeable."
    
    "Heaven forbid!--_That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!--To
    find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!--Do not wish me
    such an evil."
    
    When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
    hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper not to be a
    simpleton and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
    in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
    answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
    she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
    reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it.
    They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
    imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
    first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
    be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
    some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent.
    After a pause of some minutes she addressed him a second time with
    
    "It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.--_I_ talked about
    the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of
    the room, or the number of couples."
    
    He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
    said.
    
    "Very well.--That reply will do for the present.--Perhaps by and bye I
    may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public
    ones.--But _now_ we may be silent."
    
    "Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?"
    
    "Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
    entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of
    _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the
    trouble of saying as little as possible."
    
    "Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
    imagine that you are gratifying mine?"
    
    "Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a great
    similarity in the turn of our minds.--We are each of an unsocial,
    taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
    something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
    posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."
    
    "This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,"
    said he. "How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say.--_You_
    think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."
    
    "I must not decide on my own performance."
    
    He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down
    the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often
    walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist
    the temptation, added, "When you met us there the other day, we had just
    been forming a new acquaintance."
    
    The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his
    features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
    for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
    constrained manner said,
    
    "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his
    _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them,
    is less certain."
    
    "He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship," replied Elizabeth
    with emphasis, "and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all
    his life."
    
    Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At
    that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass
    through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
    Darcy he stopt with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his
    dancing and his partner.
    
    "I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear Sir. Such very
    superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the
    first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
    disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
    especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, (glancing
    at her sister and Bingley,) shall take place. What congratulations will
    then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you,
    Sir.--You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching
    converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me."
    
    The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
    William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
    eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
    Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,
    he turned to his partner, and said,
    
    "Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of."
    
    "I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
    interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for
    themselves.--We have tried two or three subjects already without
    success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."
    
    "What think you of books?" said he, smiling.
    
    "Books--Oh! no.--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
    feelings."
    
    "I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
    no want of subject.--We may compare our different opinions."
    
    "No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
    something else."
    
    "The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?" said he,
    with a look of doubt.
    
    "Yes, always," she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
    thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared
    by her suddenly exclaiming, "I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,
    that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
    unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being
    created_."
    
    "I am," said he, with a firm voice.
    
    "And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"
    
    "I hope not."
    
    "It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,
    to be secure of judging properly at first."
    
    "May I ask to what these questions tend?"
    
    "Merely to the illustration of _your_ character," said she, endeavouring
    to shake off her gravity. "I am trying to make it out."
    
    "And what is your success?"
    
    She shook her head. "I do not get on at all. I hear such different
    accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."
    
    "I can readily believe," answered he gravely, "that report may vary
    greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
    not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
    fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either."
    
    "But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
    opportunity."
    
    "I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied.
    She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
    silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for
    in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her,
    which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
    another.
    
    They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with
    an expression of civil disdain thus accosted her,
    
    "So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George
    Wickham!--Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a
    thousand questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you,
    among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the
    late Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend,
    not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr.
    Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he
    has been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has
    treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the
    particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to
    blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that
    though my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his
    invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had
    taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all, is a
    most insolent thing indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it.
    I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt;
    but really considering his descent, one could not expect much better."
    
    "His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same," said
    Elizabeth angrily; "for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse
    than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can
    assure you, he informed me himself."
    
    "I beg your pardon," replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
    "Excuse my interference.--It was kindly meant."
    
    "Insolent girl!" said Elizabeth to herself.--"You are much mistaken if
    you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see
    nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
    Darcy." She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make
    inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of
    such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently
    marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the
    evening.--Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment
    solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and every thing
    else gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for
    happiness.
    
    "I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
    sister's, "what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
    been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
    you may be sure of my pardon."
    
    "No," replied Jane, "I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
    satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his
    history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have
    principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,
    the probity and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
    Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
    received; and I am sorry to say that by his account as well as his
    sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am
    afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's
    regard."
    
    "Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?"
    
    "No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton."
    
    "This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
    perfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?"
    
    "He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard
    them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to
    him _conditionally_ only."
    
    "I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity," said Elizabeth warmly;
    "but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
    Bingley's defence of his friend was a very able one I dare say, but
    since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
    the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of
    both gentlemen as I did before."
    
    She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
    which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
    delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of
    Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence
    in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew
    to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
    partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them and
    told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to
    make a most important discovery.
    
    "I have found out," said he, "by a singular accident, that there is now
    in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
    gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
    this house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother
    Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would
    have thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de
    Bourgh in this assembly!--I am most thankful that the discovery is made
    in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do,
    and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
    ignorance of the connection must plead my apology."
    
    "You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?"
    
    "Indeed I am. I shall intreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
    I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
    assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'night."
    
    Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him
    that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as
    an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it
    was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
    side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
    consequence, to begin the acquaintance.--Mr. Collins listened to her
    with the determined air of following his own inclination, and when she
    ceased speaking, replied thus,
    
    "My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your
    excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your
    understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference
    between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those
    which regulate the clergy; for give me leave to observe that I consider
    the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank
    in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the
    same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates
    of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look
    on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your
    advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though
    in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and
    habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like
    yourself." And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose
    reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at
    being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with
    a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if
    hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words "apology,"
    "Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine de Bourgh."--It vexed her to see him
    expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained
    wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied
    with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not
    discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed
    abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the
    end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
    Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
    
    "I have no reason, I assure you," said he, "to be dissatisfied with my
    reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
    me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying,
    that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
    certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
    handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him."
    
    As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
    her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the
    train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,
    made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in
    that very house in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
    could bestow; and she felt capable under such circumstances, of
    endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts
    she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
    venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to
    supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
    placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
    that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,
    openly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be
    soon married to Mr. Bingley.--It was an animating subject, and Mrs.
    Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of
    the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living
    but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation;
    and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of
    Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
    she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger
    daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
    other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be
    able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that
    she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was
    necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
    such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
    Bennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She
    concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally
    fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no
    chance of it.
    
    In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
    words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible
    whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the
    chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her
    mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.
    
    "What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am
    sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say
    nothing _he_ may not like to hear."
    
    "For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower.--What advantage can it be to you
    to offend Mr. Darcy?--You will never recommend yourself to his friend by
    so doing."
    
    Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother
    would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed
    and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
    glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
    she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
    convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
    of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
    steady gravity.
    
    At length however Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
    had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
    likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken.
    Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
    tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she
    had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
    preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
    entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of
    complaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an
    opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song.
    Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations; and she
    watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience
    which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving
    amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be
    prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute
    began another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display;
    her voice was weak, and her manner affected.--Elizabeth was in agonies.
    She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly
    talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making
    signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued however
    impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
    interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,
    and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,
    
    "That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough.
    Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit."
    
    Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
    Elizabeth sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
    her anxiety had done no good.--Others of the party were now applied to.
    
    "If I," said Mr. Collins, "were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
    should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
    air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
    compatible with the profession of a clergyman.--I do not mean however to
    assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to
    music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
    rector of a parish has much to do.--In the first place, he must make
    such an agreement for tythes as may be beneficial to himself and not
    offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time
    that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care
    and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
    as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance
    that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every
    body, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot
    acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should
    omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards any body connected
    with the family." And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,
    which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.--Many
    stared.--Many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet
    himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having
    spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that
    he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.
    
    To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to
    expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would
    have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or
    finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister
    that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
    feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he
    must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should
    have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough, and
    she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or
    the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
    
    The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teazed by
    Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he
    could not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her
    power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
    somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
    He assured her that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
    that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
    her, and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
    the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
    her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
    good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.
    
    She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's farther notice;
    though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
    disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
    probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in
    it.
    
    The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a
    manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriages a quarter of
    an hour after every body else was gone, which gave them time to see how
    heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
    sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and
    were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
    every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing, threw a
    languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the
    long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his
    sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and
    politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
    nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
    Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the
    rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
    silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too
    much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of "Lord,
    how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.
    
    When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
    civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and
    addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy
    he would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time,
    without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful
    pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of
    waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to
    go the next day for a short time.
    
    Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the
    delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
    settlements, new carriages and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
    see her daughter settled at Netherfield, in the course of three or four
    months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
    with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
    Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
    man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each
    was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIX.
    
    
    The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
    declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
    his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
    no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the
    moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
    observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding
    Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon
    after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,
    
    "May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
    when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
    course of this morning?"
    
    Before Elizabeth had time for any thing but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
    Bennet instantly answered,
    
    "Oh dear!--Yes--certainly.--I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am
    sure she can have no objection.--Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs." And
    gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth
    called out,
    
    "Dear Ma'am, do not go.--I beg you will not go.--Mr. Collins must excuse
    me.--He can have nothing to say to me that any body need not hear. I am
    going away myself."
    
    "No, no, nonsense, Lizzy.--I desire you will stay where you are."--And
    upon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about
    to escape, she added, "Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing
    Mr. Collins."
    
    Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
    consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
    over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried
    to conceal by incessant employment the feelings which were divided
    between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as
    soon as they were gone Mr. Collins began.
    
    "Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
    doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
    would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
    unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected
    mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport
    of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
    dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
    soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my
    future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
    subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for
    marrying--and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of
    selecting a wife, as I certainly did."
    
    The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
    with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not
    use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and
    he continued:
    
    "My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
    every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
    of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add
    very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought to have
    mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation
    of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.
    Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this
    subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left
    Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
    arranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
    must marry. A clergyman like you must marry.--Chuse properly, chuse a
    gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
    useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
    income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
    you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
    way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and
    kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
    advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond any
    thing I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must be
    acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect
    which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
    intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
    were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
    assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
    being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
    father, (who, however, may live many years longer,) I could not satisfy
    myself without resolving to chuse a wife from among his daughters, that
    the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
    event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be
    for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I
    flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
    remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
    violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
    shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
    aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
    in the 4 per cents. which will not be yours till after your mother's
    decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
    therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
    no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."
    
    It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
    
    "You are too hasty, Sir," she cried. "You forget that I have made no
    answer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for
    the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
    your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline
    them."
    
    "I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
    hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
    man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
    favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a
    third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
    said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."
    
    "Upon my word, Sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is rather an
    extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
    one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
    daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
    time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.--You could not make _me_
    happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
    would make _you_ so.--Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
    am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
    situation."
    
    "Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said Mr. Collins
    very gravely--"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
    disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of
    seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty,
    economy, and other amiable qualifications."
    
    "Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must
    give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of
    believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
    refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
    In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
    feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
    estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be
    considered, therefore, as finally settled." And rising as she thus
    spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus
    addressed her,
    
    "When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject I
    shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
    me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
    know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the
    first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
    encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
    female character."
    
    "Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth, "you puzzle me
    exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
    of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
    may convince you of its being one."
    
    "You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
    refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
    believing it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand
    is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
    be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
    with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
    circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into farther
    consideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
    means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
    portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the
    effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
    therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I
    shall chuse to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
    suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females."
    
    "I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to that kind
    of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
    rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
    again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
    to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
    forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
    female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the
    truth from her heart."
    
    "You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward
    gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
    authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
    being acceptable."
    
    To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no
    reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he
    persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
    encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
    in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
    not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XX.
    
    
    Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
    successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
    to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the
    door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
    entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
    warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
    received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
    proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
    of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
    refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
    from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
    
    This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet;--she would have been
    glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
    him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe
    it, and could not help saying so.
    
    "But depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be
    brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is
    a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but
    I will _make_ her know it."
    
    "Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she
    is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
    altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
    naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
    actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to
    force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
    temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity."
    
    "Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is
    only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as
    good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
    we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure."
    
    She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
    husband, called out as she entered the library,
    
    "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar.
    You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will
    not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and
    not have _her_."
    
    Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
    on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
    her communication.
    
    "I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had
    finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"
    
    "Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
    and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."
    
    "And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business."
    
    "Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
    marrying him."
    
    "Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."
    
    Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
    library.
    
    "Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for
    you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
    you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was.
    "Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"
    
    "I have, Sir."
    
    "Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
    accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?"
    
    "Yes, or I will never see her again."
    
    "An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
    be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you
    again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
    if you _do_."
    
    Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning;
    but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
    affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
    
    "What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me
    to _insist_ upon her marrying him."
    
    "My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request.
    First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
    present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
    library to myself as soon as may be."
    
    Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
    Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
    coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in
    her interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined
    interfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and
    sometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner
    varied however, her determination never did.
    
    Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
    He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin
    could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
    way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
    deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
    
    While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
    the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
    her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such
    fun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has
    made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him."
    
    Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
    who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the
    breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
    the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
    her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
    family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone,
    "for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used,
    nobody feels for my poor nerves."
    
    Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
    
    "Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned
    as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
    she can have her own way.--But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take
    it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
    you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
    to maintain you when your father is dead.--_I_ shall not be able to keep
    you--and so I warn you.--I have done with you from this very day.--I
    told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you
    again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in
    talking to undutiful children.--Not that I have much pleasure indeed in
    talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints
    can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I
    suffer!--But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never
    pitied."
    
    Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any
    attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation.
    She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till
    they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately
    than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,
    
    "Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and
    let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together."
    
    Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
    Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
    detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
    herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
    curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
    not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected
    conversation.--"Oh! Mr. Collins!"--
    
    "My dear Madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point.
    Far be it from me," he presently continued in a voice that marked his
    displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to
    inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man
    who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I
    trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my
    positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I
    have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the
    blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation.
    You will not, I hope, consider me as shewing any disrespect to your
    family, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your
    daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
    compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf.
    My conduct may I fear be objectionable in having accepted my dismission
    from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to
    error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object
    has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
    consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
    has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XXI.
    
    
    The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
    Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
    attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother.
    As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not
    by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by
    stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to
    her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
    himself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
    civility in listening to him, was a seasonable relief to them all, and
    especially to her friend.
    
    The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill
    health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
    had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
    not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
    Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.
    
    After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
    were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
    He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their
    aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was
    well talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
    that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed.
    
    "I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet
    Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
    many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
    might arise unpleasant to more than myself."
    
    She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
    discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
    bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
    them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her.
    His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
    compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
    occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.
    
    Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
    from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a
    sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's
    fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as
    she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages.
    Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to
    join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but
    Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention
    even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave,
    than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they
    had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,
    
    "This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a
    good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are
    on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again.
    You shall hear what she says."
    
    She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
    of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
    and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr.
    Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to
    regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my
    dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many
    returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean
    while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most
    unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high
    flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of
    distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she
    saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
    absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
    to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon
    cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
    
    "It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be
    able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
    hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
    forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
    intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater
    satisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
    them."
    
    "Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
    Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--
    
    "When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
    took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we
    are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
    Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
    determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
    his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are
    already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest
    friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I
    despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in
    the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux
    will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of
    whom we shall deprive you."
    
    "It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this
    winter."
    
    "It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_."
    
    "Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master.
    But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
    particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy
    is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are
    scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana
    Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the
    affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into
    something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of
    her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
    mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the
    country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
    unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have
    frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her
    relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's
    partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
    capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
    favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
    Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
    of so many?"
    
    "What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?"--said Jane as she
    finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare
    that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she
    is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she
    suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
    put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"
    
    "Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?"
    
    "Most willingly."
    
    "You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
    in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to
    town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
    does not care about you."
    
    Jane shook her head.
    
    "Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you
    together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is
    not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy
    for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is
    this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the
    more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that
    when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in
    achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I
    dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
    my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
    tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
    degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
    Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of
    being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend."
    
    "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your
    representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the
    foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any
    one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived
    herself."
    
    "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
    will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means.
    You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."
    
    "But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
    accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
    elsewhere?"
    
    "You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature
    deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
    more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
    all means to refuse him."
    
    "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that
    though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
    not hesitate."
    
    "I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider
    your situation with much compassion."
    
    "But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
    required. A thousand things may arise in six months!"
    
    The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
    contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
    interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
    wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
    so totally independent of every one.
    
    She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on
    the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
    Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
    though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
    Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
    
    They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
    family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
    but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
    and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
    to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
    lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking
    that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn,
    and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though
    he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have
    two full courses.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XXII.
    
    
    The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the
    chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
    Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good
    humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express."
    Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
    that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
    very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
    had any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her
    from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
    herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
    favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
    sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.
    But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
    character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
    morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
    himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
    from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
    conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
    till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost
    secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
    he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His
    reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived
    him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly
    set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared
    to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
    
    In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every
    thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they
    entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was
    to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be
    waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his
    happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must
    guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
    continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and
    disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
    establishment were gained.
    
    Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
    and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
    circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
    they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
    exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more
    interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
    Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
    opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
    Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
    should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short
    were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
    of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
    done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
    dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
    gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
    in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor
    agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be
    imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly
    either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it
    was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small
    fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their
    pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now
    obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
    handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable
    circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to
    Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other
    person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though
    her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such
    disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and
    therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner,
    to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise
    of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept
    without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst
    forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some
    ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great
    self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.
    
    As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
    family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
    for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said
    how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his
    other engagements might allow him to visit them.
    
    "My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly
    gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you
    may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
    possible."
    
    They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
    so speedy a return, immediately said,
    
    "But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
    good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of
    offending your patroness."
    
    "My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you
    for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
    material a step without her ladyship's concurrence."
    
    "You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her
    displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
    again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
    and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence."
    
    "Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
    affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
    from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of
    your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins,
    though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall
    now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting
    my cousin Elizabeth."
    
    With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
    surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished
    to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of
    her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
    She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a
    solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
    means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and
    improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very
    agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
    kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
    private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
    
    The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
    friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
    that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from
    possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her
    astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the
    bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,
    
    "Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!"
    
    The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
    story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
    reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon
    regained her composure, and calmly replied,
    
    "Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza?--Do you think it incredible
    that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
    because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?"
    
    But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
    for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect
    of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished
    her all imaginable happiness.
    
    "I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte,--"you must be
    surprised, very much surprised,--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to
    marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you
    will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic you know. I
    never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
    character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
    chance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on
    entering the marriage state."
    
    Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;"--and after an awkward pause,
    they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
    longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It
    was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
    unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
    of marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being
    now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony
    was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it
    possible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every
    better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins,
    was a most humiliating picture!--And to the pang of a friend disgracing
    herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction
    that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot
    she had chosen.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XXIII.
    
    
    Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
    she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it,
    when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to
    announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
    and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
    houses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering,
    but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than
    politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia, always
    unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,
    
    "Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?--Do not you know
    that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?"
    
    Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
    without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
    him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
    truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
    most forbearing courtesy.
    
    Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
    a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
    mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
    endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters,
    by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
    was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
    happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
    of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
    
    Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
    Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
    found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
    the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
    had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy
    together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
    inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole; one, that
    Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that
    she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two
    points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
    console and nothing appease her.--Nor did that day wear out her
    resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
    scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
    or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
    could at all forgive their daughter.
    
    Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
    as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
    it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
    been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
    more foolish than his daughter!
    
    Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
    less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
    nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and
    Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
    clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
    to spread at Meryton.
    
    Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on
    Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
    called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
    though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
    enough to drive happiness away.
    
    Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
    mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no
    real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
    disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
    sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
    never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as
    Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.
    
    Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
    the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
    letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their
    father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
    twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
    his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
    rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
    of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
    merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
    to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
    he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
    he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
    place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
    argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
    the happiest of men.
    
    Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
    pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary she was as much disposed to
    complain of it as her husband.--It was very strange that he should come
    to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
    and exceedingly troublesome.--She hated having visitors in the house
    while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
    most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they
    gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
    absence.
    
    Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
    day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
    report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
    Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
    Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
    falsehood.
    
    Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
    his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she
    was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
    dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
    frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
    and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
    Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for
    the strength of his attachment.
    
    As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspence was, of course, more
    painful than Elizabeth's; but whatever she felt she was desirous of
    concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
    was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an
    hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
    impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
    did not come back, she should think herself very ill used. It needed all
    Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
    tranquillity.
    
    Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his
    reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
    first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
    and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
    from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
    him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
    to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
    
    Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of any
    thing concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill humour, and
    wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of
    Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
    regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
    them she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
    whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
    they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
    and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
    complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
    
    "Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that Charlotte
    Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
    make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!"
    
    "My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
    better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor."
    
    This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore, instead of
    making any answer, she went on as before,
    
    "I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
    not for the entail I should not mind it."
    
    "What should not you mind?"
    
    "I should not mind any thing at all."
    
    "Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
    insensibility."
    
    "I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the entail.
    How any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate from
    one's own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr.
    Collins too!--Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?"
    
    "I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.
    
    
    END OF VOL. I.
    
    
    
    
    [Illustration: A VICARAGE HOUSE.]
    
    
    
    
    PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:
    
    A Novel.
    
    In Three Volumes.
    
    By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."
    
    VOL. II.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    London:
    Printed for T. Egerton,
    Military Library, Whitehall.
    1813.
    
    
    
    
    PRIDE & PREJUDICE.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER I.
    
    
    Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
    sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
    the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
    time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
    the country.
    
    Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of
    the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
    writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
    the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
    boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
    the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
    letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
    inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures, some plans of
    the latter with regard to new furniture.
    
    Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
    heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
    for her sister, and resentment against all the others. To Caroline's
    assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
    credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
    had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
    could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
    of temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave
    of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to
    the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been
    the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what
    ever manner he thought best; but her sister's was involved in it, as she
    thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on
    which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
    could think of nothing else, and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
    died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he
    had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
    observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
    materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
    the same, her peace equally wounded.
    
    A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
    Elizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
    longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
    not help saying,
    
    "Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself; she can have no
    idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I
    will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
    all be as we were before."
    
    Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
    nothing.
    
    "You doubt me," cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed you have no
    reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
    acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
    and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
    little time therefore.--I shall certainly try to get the better."
    
    With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this comfort immediately,
    that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
    has done no harm to any one but myself."
    
    "My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Your sweetness
    and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to
    you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
    deserve."
    
    Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
    the praise on her sister's warm affection.
    
    "Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
    world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any body. _I_ only
    want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be
    afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
    privilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people
    whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
    of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
    my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
    little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit
    or sense. I have met with two instances lately; one I will not mention;
    the other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it
    is unaccountable!"
    
    "My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
    ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of
    situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
    Charlotte's prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a
    large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
    ready to believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something
    like regard and esteem for our cousin."
    
    "To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no one else
    could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
    Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
    understanding, than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is
    a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well
    as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries
    him, cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her,
    though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one
    individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor
    endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and
    insensibility of danger, security for happiness."
    
    "I must think your language too strong in speaking of both," replied
    Jane, "and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy
    together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
    mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I intreat
    you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
    saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
    ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
    to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
    our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
    it does."
    
    "And men take care that they should."
    
    "If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
    of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine."
    
    "I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,"
    said Elizabeth; "but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
    unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
    want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
    will do the business."
    
    "And do you impute it to either of those?"
    
    "Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
    I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can."
    
    "You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him."
    
    "Yes, in conjunction with his friend."
    
    "I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
    only wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
    secure it."
    
    "Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
    happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
    may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
    connections, and pride."
    
    "Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to chuse Miss Darcy," replied Jane;
    "but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
    known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
    her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
    they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
    herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
    objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
    to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
    affection, you make every body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
    unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
    mistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of
    what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it
    in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood."
    
    Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
    name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
    
    Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
    more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
    for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it
    with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what
    she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely
    the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw
    her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
    the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
    comfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
    
    Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. "So, Lizzy," said he one day,
    "your sister is crossed in love I find. I congratulate her. Next to
    being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.
    It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among
    her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be
    long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at
    Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
    be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably."
    
    "Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
    all expect Jane's good fortune."
    
    "True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of
    that kind may befal you, you have an affectionate mother who will always
    make the most of it."
    
    Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom,
    which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
    family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
    added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
    heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
    was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was
    pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
    had known any thing of the matter.
    
    Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any
    extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of
    Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
    allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
    Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER II.
    
    
    After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.
    Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
    Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
    side, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason
    to hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day
    would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave
    of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished
    his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father
    another letter of thanks.
    
    On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her
    brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at
    Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentleman-like man, greatly
    superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
    ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by
    trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well
    bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than
    Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
    woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
    two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular
    regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.
    
    The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was to
    distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
    done, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
    Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
    had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
    girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing
    in it.
    
    "I do not blame Jane," she continued, "for Jane would have got Mr.
    Bingley, if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think
    that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had not it
    been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
    and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
    a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as
    much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
    sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
    them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
    so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
    before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
    greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
    long sleeves."
    
    Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in
    the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
    sister a slight answer, and in compassion to her nieces turned the
    conversation.
    
    When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. "It
    seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane," said she. "I am
    sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
    as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
    for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
    her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent."
    
    "An excellent consolation in its way," said Elizabeth, "but it will not
    do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often happen
    that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
    independent fortune to think no more of a girl, whom he was violently in
    love with only a few days before."
    
    "But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
    doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
    often applied to feelings which arise from an half-hour's acquaintance,
    as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
    love?"
    
    "I never saw a more promising inclination. He was growing quite
    inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
    they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
    offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance, and I
    spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
    finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?"
    
    "Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
    Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
    over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
    would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
    would be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of
    service--and perhaps a little relief from home, may be as useful as
    anything."
    
    Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
    of her sister's ready acquiescence.
    
    "I hope," added Mrs. Gardiner, "that no consideration with regard to
    this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
    town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
    out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all,
    unless he really comes to see her."
    
    "And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
    friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a
    part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
    perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would
    hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
    impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
    never stirs without him."
    
    "So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
    correspond with the sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling."
    
    "She will drop the acquaintance entirely."
    
    But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
    point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
    withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
    convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
    hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
    his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends
    successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
    attractions.
    
    Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
    Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the time, than as she
    hoped that, by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
    she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
    seeing him.
    
    The Gardiners staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses,
    the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
    engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
    of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
    dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
    made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
    on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
    warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing
    them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
    of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she
    resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
    Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
    an attachment.
    
    To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
    unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
    before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part
    of Derbyshire, to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
    acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since
    the death of Darcy's father, five years before, it was yet in his power
    to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends, than she had
    been in the way of procuring.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
    character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
    of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley, with the
    minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her
    tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was
    delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the
    present Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember something of
    that gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad, which might agree
    with it, and was confident at last, that she recollected having heard
    Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured
    boy.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER III.
    
    
    Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on
    the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after
    honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
    
    "You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you
    are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
    openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve
    yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of
    fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against
    _him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he
    ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you
    must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all
    expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
    good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father."
    
    "My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed."
    
    "Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise."
    
    "Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
    myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
    can prevent it."
    
    "Elizabeth, you are not serious now."
    
    "I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with
    Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
    the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
    me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
    of it.--Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!--My father's opinion of me does
    me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
    father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
    should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
    since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are
    seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune, from entering into
    engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
    of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
    would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
    to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
    object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
    I will do my best."
    
    "Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very
    often. At least, you should not _remind_ your Mother of inviting him."
    
    "As I did the other day," said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; "very
    true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
    that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
    so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
    necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
    honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you
    are satisfied."
    
    Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for
    the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
    being given on such a point, without being resented.
    
    Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
    by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
    his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
    now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
    it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that
    she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day,
    and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose
    to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
    reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
    out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said,
    
    "I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza."
    
    "_That_ you certainly shall."
    
    "And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?"
    
    "We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire."
    
    "I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
    come to Hunsford."
    
    Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
    visit.
    
    "My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte, "and
    I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be
    as welcome to me as either of them."
    
    The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
    the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the
    subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
    correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it
    should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
    address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
    and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
    sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
    were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
    curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
    like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
    be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
    expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
    wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
    which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
    roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
    friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
    Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
    for her own visit there, to know the rest.
    
    Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
    safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
    would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
    
    Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
    generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or
    hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
    her last letter to her friend from Longbourn, had by some accident been
    lost.
    
    "My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the
    town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street."
    
    She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
    "I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very
    glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
    to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her.
    I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
    engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
    Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
    not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
    soon see them here."
    
    Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her, that
    accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.
    
    Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
    persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
    blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
    for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
    visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
    the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no
    longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister, will
    prove what she felt.
    
         "My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in
         her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have
         been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my
         dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me
         obstinate if I still assert, that, considering what her behaviour
         was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at
         all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but
         if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should
         be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday;
         and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When
         she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it;
         she made a slight, formal, apology, for not calling before, said
         not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so
         altered a creature, that when she went away, I was perfectly
         resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I
         cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as
         she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on
         her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been
         acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her
         brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and
         though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she
         feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so
         deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may
         feel on his behalf, is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder,
         however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at
         all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my
         being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and
         yet it should seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to
         persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot
         understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
         be almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of
         duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful
         thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection,
         and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear
         from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never
         returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not
         with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely
         glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at
         Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am
         sure you will be very comfortable there.
    
         "Your's, &c."
    
    This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
    considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
    All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
    even wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every
    review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
    advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
    Darcy's sister, as, by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
    regret what he had thrown away.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
    concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had
    such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
    herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
    he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
    see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
    Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
    with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
    permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
    remarkable charm of the young lady, to whom he was now rendering himself
    agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in his case than
    in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
    Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
    suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
    ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
    sincerely wish him happy.
    
    All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
    circumstances, she thus went on:--"I am now convinced, my dear aunt,
    that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that
    pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name,
    and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
    towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
    out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think
    her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
    watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more
    interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love
    with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
    Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
    his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways
    of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
    handsome young men must have something to live on, as well as the
    plain."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER IV.
    
    
    With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
    diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
    sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
    Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
    going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan,
    and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
    as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
    Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was
    novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
    uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
    was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
    a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
    been very sorry for any delay. Every thing, however, went on smoothly,
    and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
    to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of
    spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
    perfect as plan could be.
    
    The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
    and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
    told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.
    
    The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
    his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
    Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
    first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
    of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what
    she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
    opinion of her--their opinion of every body--would always coincide,
    there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her
    to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced,
    that whether married or single, he must always be her model of the

    amiable and pleasing.
    
    Her fellow-travellers the next day, were not of a kind to make her think
    him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good
    humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that
    could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight
    as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had
    known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the
    wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn
    out like his information.
    
    It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
    as to be in Gracechurch-street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
    door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
    they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
    looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
    lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
    whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
    wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her
    for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
    kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
    shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
    
    Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her
    sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
    her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
    spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to
    hope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
    particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and
    repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
    herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
    acquaintance.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
    complimented her on bearing it so well.
    
    "But, my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I
    should be sorry to think our friend mercenary."
    
    "Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
    between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
    and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
    because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a
    girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
    mercenary."
    
    "If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
    what to think."
    
    "She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."
    
    "But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's
    death made her mistress of this fortune."
    
    "No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_
    affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
    making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
    poor?"
    
    "But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so
    soon after this event."
    
    "A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
    decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
    why should _we_?"
    
    "_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being
    deficient in something herself--sense or feeling."
    
    "Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
    mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish."
    
    "No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
    to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."
    
    "Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
    Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
    much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
    where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
    neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
    worth knowing, after all."
    
    "Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."
    
    Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
    unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
    a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
    
    "We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs.
    Gardiner, "but perhaps to the Lakes."
    
    No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
    acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "My dear, dear
    aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me
    fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men
    to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And
    when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without
    being able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We _will_ know where
    we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,
    and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when
    we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling
    about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less
    insupportable than those of the generality of travellers."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER V.
    
    
    Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
    Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state for enjoyment; for she had
    seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
    and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
    
    When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
    search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
    The paling of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
    smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
    
    At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road,
    the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, every
    thing declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at
    the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which led by a
    short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole
    party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the
    sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest
    pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming, when
    she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her
    cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility
    was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate
    to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were then,
    with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance,
    taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he
    welcomed them a second time with ostentatious formality to his humble
    abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.
    
    Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
    fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect
    and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if
    wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though
    every thing seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him
    by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend
    that she could have so cheerful an air, with such a companion. When Mr.
    Collins said any thing of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed,
    which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on
    Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general
    Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every
    article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to
    give an account of their journey and of all that had happened in London,
    Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large
    and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself.
    To work in his garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and
    Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked
    of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as
    much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross
    walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he
    asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left
    beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction,
    and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But
    of all the views which his garden, or which the country, or the kingdom
    could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings,
    afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly
    opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well
    situated on rising ground.
    
    From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows,
    but the ladies not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
    frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
    took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
    probably, to have the opportunity of shewing it without her husband's
    help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and every
    thing was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of
    which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
    forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by
    Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
    forgotten.
    
    She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
    was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
    in, observed,
    
    "Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
    de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
    be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
    doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when
    service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will
    include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
    honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
    charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to
    walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
    _should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several."
    
    "Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed," added
    Charlotte, "and a most attentive neighbour."
    
    "Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
    woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference."
    
    The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and
    telling again what had been already written; and when it closed,
    Elizabeth in the solitude of her chamber had to meditate upon
    Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
    and composure in bearing with her husband, and to acknowledge that it
    was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would
    pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
    interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
    Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.
    
    About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
    for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
    confusion; and after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up
    stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the
    door, and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
    agitation, cried out,
    
    "Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
    there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
    haste, and come down this moment."
    
    Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
    and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest
    of this wonder; it was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
    garden gate.
    
    "And is this all?" cried Elizabeth. "I expected at least that the pigs
    were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
    daughter!"
    
    "La! my dear," said Maria quite shocked at the mistake, "it is not Lady
    Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The
    other is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
    creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!"
    
    "She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
    Why does she not come in?"
    
    "Oh! Charlotte says, she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
    when Miss De Bourgh comes in."
    
    "I like her appearance," said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. "She
    looks sickly and cross.--Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
    make him a very proper wife."
    
    Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in
    conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high
    diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the
    greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh
    looked that way.
    
    At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
    the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
    girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
    Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
    to dine at Rosings the next day.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VI.
    
    
    Mr. Collins's triumph in consequence of this invitation was complete.
    The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
    visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
    wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of
    doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
    Catherine's condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.
    
    "I confess," said he, "that I should not have been at all surprised by
    her Ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
    Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
    would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
    could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
    (an invitation moreover including the whole party) so immediately after
    your arrival!"
    
    "I am the less surprised at what has happened," replied Sir William,
    "from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
    my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the Court, such
    instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon."
    
    Scarcely any thing was talked of the whole day or next morning, but
    their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in
    what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many
    servants, and so splendid a dinner might not wholly overpower them.
    
    When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth,
    
    "Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
    Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us, which
    becomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
    whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion
    for any thing more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for
    being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
    preserved."
    
    While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
    doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
    objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.--Such formidable accounts of
    her Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas,
    who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
    introduction at Rosings, with as much apprehension, as her father had
    done to his presentation at St. James's.
    
    As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile
    across the park.--Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
    Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
    raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
    slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
    house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
    cost Sir Lewis De Bourgh.
    
    When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
    moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly
    calm.--Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of
    Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
    miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank, she
    thought she could witness without trepidation.
    
    From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
    rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed
    the servants through an anti-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine,
    her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting.--Her Ladyship, with great
    condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it
    with her husband that the office of introduction should be her's, it was
    performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks
    which he would have thought necessary.
    
    In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely
    awed, by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
    enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
    and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
    of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
    quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
    composedly.--Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with
    strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air
    was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them, such as to
    make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered
    formidable by silence; but whatever she said, was spoken in so
    authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr.
    Wickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the
    day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had
    represented.
    
    When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
    she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
    daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment, at her
    being so thin, and so small. There was neither in figure nor face, any
    likeness between the ladies. Miss De Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
    features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
    little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
    there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
    to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
    her eyes.
    
    After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows,
    to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its
    beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much
    better worth looking at in the summer.
    
    The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants,
    and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he
    had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by
    her ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
    nothing greater.--He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
    alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him, and then by Sir
    William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son in law
    said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
    But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
    gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
    a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
    was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
    between Charlotte and Miss De Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
    listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
    dinner time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
    Miss De Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she
    were indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
    gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.
    
    When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be
    done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
    intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
    subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have
    her judgment controverted. She enquired into Charlotte's domestic
    concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice,
    as to the management of them all; told her how every thing ought to be
    regulated in so small a family as her's, and instructed her as to the
    care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
    beneath this great Lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
    occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with
    Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
    Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
    the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel,
    pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times, how many sisters
    she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
    them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
    had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her
    mother's maiden name?--Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her
    questions, but answered them very composedly.--Lady Catherine then
    observed,
    
    "Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
    sake," turning to Charlotte, "I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
    occasion for entailing estates from the female line.--It was not thought
    necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family.--Do you play and sing, Miss
    Bennet?"
    
    "A little."
    
    "Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
    instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
    some day.--Do your sisters play and sing?"
    
    "One of them does."
    
    "Why did not you all learn?--You ought all to have learned. The Miss
    Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as
    your's.--Do you draw?"
    
    "No, not at all."
    
    "What, none of you?"
    
    "Not one."
    
    "That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
    should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters."
    
    "My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London."
    
    "Has your governess left you?"
    
    "We never had any governess."
    
    "No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
    without a governess!--I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
    have been quite a slave to your education."
    
    Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not
    been the case.
    
    "Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess you must
    have been neglected."
    
    "Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
    wished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
    read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
    idle, certainly might."
    
    "Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
    known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
    one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
    and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
    wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
    way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
    of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
    it was but the other day, that I recommended another young person, who
    was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
    delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's
    calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
    Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
    younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?"
    
    "Yes, Ma'am, all."
    
    "All!--What, all five out at once? Very odd!--And you only the
    second.--The younger ones out before the elder are married!--Your
    younger sisters must be very young?"
    
    "Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much
    in company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
    younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
    amusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
    marry early.--The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of
    youth, as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive!--I think it
    would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of
    mind."
    
    "Upon my word," said her Ladyship, "you give your opinion very
    decidedly for so young a person.--Pray, what is your age?"
    
    "With three younger sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth smiling, "your
    Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it."
    
    Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
    and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
    dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
    
    "You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not
    conceal your age."
    
    "I am not one and twenty."
    
    When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables
    were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
    down to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
    two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
    party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
    uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
    expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
    having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
    other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
    of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
    was employed in agreeing to every thing her Ladyship said, thanking her
    for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
    Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
    and noble names.
    
    When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
    the tables were broke up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
    gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
    round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
    to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the
    arrival of the coach, and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
    Collins's side, and as many bows on Sir William's, they departed. As
    soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her
    cousin, to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which,
    for Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But
    her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means
    satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship's
    praise into his own hands.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VII.
    
    
    Sir William staid only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long enough
    to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of
    her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met
    with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his mornings
    to driving him out in his gig, and shewing him the country; but when he
    went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and
    Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin
    by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and
    dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in reading
    and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, which
    fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
    Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
    the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
    pleasanter aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
    reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
    much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
    she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
    
    From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
    were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
    along, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
    which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
    almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had
    a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
    prevailed on to get out.
    
    Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
    not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
    and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
    to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
    hours. Now and then, they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship,
    and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
    these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
    and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
    of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
    accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
    out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.
    
    Elizabeth soon perceived that though this great lady was not in the
    commission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate
    in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by
    Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be
    quarrelsome, discontented or too poor, she sallied forth into the
    village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
    them into harmony and plenty.
    
    The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
    and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card
    table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of
    the first. Their other engagements were few; as the style of living of
    the neighbourhood in general, was beyond the Collinses' reach. This
    however was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
    comfortably enough; there were half hours of pleasant conversation with
    Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she
    had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where
    she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
    along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
    a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
    where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.
    
    In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
    Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it, was to bring an
    addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
    important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy
    was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were
    not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would
    furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
    she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
    were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined
    by Lady Catherine; who talked of his coming with the greatest
    satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
    seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
    Miss Lucas and herself.
    
    His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking
    the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
    in order to have the earliest assurance of it; and after making his bow
    as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
    intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
    respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
    Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
    his uncle, Lord ---- and to the great surprise of all the party, when
    Mr. Collins returned the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
    them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
    into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,
    
    "I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
    never have come so soon to wait upon me."
    
    Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
    before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
    afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
    who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
    address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
    used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual
    reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her
    friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
    curtseyed to him, without saying a word.
    
    Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
    readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
    his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
    garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to any body.
    At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to enquire of
    Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
    way, and after a moment's pause, added,
    
    "My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
    happened to see her there?"
    
    She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
    whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the
    Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he
    answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
    subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
    away.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VIII.
    
    
    Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the parsonage,
    and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of
    their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
    received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the
    house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
    almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
    such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
    come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
    of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called
    at the parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had
    only seen at church.
    
    The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
    the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them
    civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
    acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
    almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
    much more than to any other person in the room.
    
    Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; any thing was a
    welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
    moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
    talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
    at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
    well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
    spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as
    well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
    towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a
    while shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
    scruple to call out,
    
    "What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking

    of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is."
    
    "We are speaking of music, Madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid
    a reply.
    
    "Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
    must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.
    There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
    of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I
    should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
    had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
    delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"
    
    Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.
    
    "I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," said Lady
    Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel,
    if she does not practise a great deal."
    
    "I assure you, Madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice.
    She practises very constantly."
    
    "So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
    to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
    tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired,
    without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that
    she will never play really well, unless she practises more; and though
    Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often
    told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the piano-forte in
    Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that
    part of the house."
    
    Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill breeding, and made
    no answer.
    
    When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
    promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
    drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
    talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from
    her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano-forte,
    stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
    countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
    convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said,
    
    "You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
    me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well.
    There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at
    the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to
    intimidate me."
    
    "I shall not say that you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could
    not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I
    have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you
    find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact
    are not your own."
    
    Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
    Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
    me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
    in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a
    part of the world, where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree
    of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention
    all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me
    leave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate,
    and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear."
    
    "I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.
    
    "Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel
    Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."
    
    "You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
    The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
    was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
    only four dances! I am sorry to pain you--but so it was. He danced only
    four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge,
    more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr.
    Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."
    
    "I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
    beyond my own party."
    
    "True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel
    Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."
    
    "Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an
    introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers."
    
    "Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still
    addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
    education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
    himself to strangers?"
    
    "I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to
    him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."
    
    "I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy,
    "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
    catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
    concerns, as I often see done."
    
    "My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the
    masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
    force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
    have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take the
    trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
    capable as any other woman's of superior execution."
    
    Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your
    time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can
    think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."
    
    Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
    what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
    Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
    to Darcy,
    
    "Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss, if she practised more, and
    could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
    of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
    been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."
    
    Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
    cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
    discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
    De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
    been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.
    
    Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
    with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
    them with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the
    gentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship's carriage was
    ready to take them all home.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER IX.
    
    
    Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane,
    while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
    when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
    visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be
    Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
    half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
    when the door opened, and to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr.
    Darcy only, entered the room.
    
    He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
    intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to
    be within.
    
    They then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were made,
    seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
    necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
    recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling
    curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
    departure, she observed,
    
    "How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
    It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you

    all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
    before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London."
    
    "Perfectly so--I thank you."
    
    She found that she was to receive no other answer--and, after a short
    pause, added,
    
    "I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
    returning to Netherfield again?"
    
    "I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
    very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is
    at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
    increasing."
    
    "If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the
    neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
    might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did
    not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
    for his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same
    principle."
    
    "I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up, as
    soon as any eligible purchase offers."
    
    Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
    friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
    trouble of finding a subject to him.
    
    He took the hint, and soon began with, "This seems a very comfortable
    house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
    Collins first came to Hunsford."
    
    "I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
    kindness on a more grateful object."
    
    "Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife."
    
    "Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of
    the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
    him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
    I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest
    thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
    prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her."
    
    "It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a
    distance of her own family and friends."
    
    "An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."
    
    "And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
    journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance."
    
    "I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
    of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins
    was settled _near_ her family."
    
    "It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Any thing beyond
    the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far."
    
    As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she
    understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
    Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered,
    
    "I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
    family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
    varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expence of
    travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
    case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
    such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
    friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
    the present distance."
    
    Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, "_You_ cannot
    have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
    been always at Longbourn."
    
    Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
    feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and,
    glancing over it, said, in a colder voice,
    
    "Are you pleased with Kent?"
    
    A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
    calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
    and her sister, just returned from their walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
    them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
    on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
    much to any body, went away.
    
    "What can be the meaning of this!" said Charlotte, as soon as he was
    gone. "My dear Eliza he must be in love with you, or he would never have
    called on us in this familiar way."
    
    But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,
    even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
    conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
    the difficulty of finding any thing to do, which was the more probable
    from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
    was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be
    always within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
    pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
    two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
    almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
    separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
    aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
    had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
    him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
    being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
    former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
    there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
    she believed he might have the best informed mind.
    
    But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
    to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
    ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it
    seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to
    propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
    animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
    Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
    generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
    her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of
    love, and the object of that love, her friend Eliza, she sat herself
    seriously to work to find it out.--She watched him whenever they were at
    Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
    certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
    look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
    doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
    seemed nothing but absence of mind.
    
    She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
    being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
    Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
    raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
    opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
    vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.
    
    In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
    Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the pleasantest man; he
    certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
    to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
    in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER X.
    
    
    More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly
    meet Mr. Darcy.--She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that
    should bring him where no one else was brought; and to prevent its ever
    happening again, took care to inform him at first, that it was a
    favourite haunt of hers.--How it could occur a second time therefore was
    very odd!--Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful
    ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not
    merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he
    actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
    said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of
    listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre
    that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her pleasure in
    being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr.
    and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her
    not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever
    she came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
    seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts?
    She supposed, if he meant any thing, he must mean an allusion to what
    might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was
    quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the
    Parsonage.
    
    She was engaged one day as she walked, in re-perusing Jane's last
    letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not
    written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy,
    she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting
    away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said,
    
    "I did not know before that you ever walked this way."
    
    "I have been making the tour of the Park," he replied, "as I generally
    do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
    you going much farther?"
    
    "No, I should have turned in a moment."
    
    And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
    together.
    
    "Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.
    
    "Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
    arranges the business just as he pleases."
    
    "And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
    great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems
    more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."
    
    "He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
    "But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than
    many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
    feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
    dependence."
    
    "In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of
    either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
    dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
    wherever you chose, or procuring any thing you had a fancy for?"
    
    "These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
    experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
    weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry
    where they like."
    
    "Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
    do."
    
    "Our habits of expence make us too dependant, and there are not many in
    my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
    money."
    
    "Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the
    idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what is
    the usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
    very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."
    
    He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
    a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
    she soon afterwards said,
    
    "I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
    having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
    lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps his sister does as well
    for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he

    likes with her."
    
    "No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must
    divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."
    
    "Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
    charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age, are sometimes a
    little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
    may like to have her own way."
    
    As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly, and the manner
    in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
    give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
    got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,
    
    "You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
    say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
    very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
    Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."
    
    "I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentleman-like
    man--he is a great friend of Darcy's."
    
    "Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily--"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
    Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."
    
    "Care of him!--Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
    those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
    our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
    him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
    Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."
    
    "What is it you mean?"
    
    "It is a circumstance which Darcy of course would not wish to be
    generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family,
    it would be an unpleasant thing."
    
    "You may depend upon my not mentioning it."
    
    "And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
    Bingley. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself
    on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
    imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
    particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him
    the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
    knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."
    
    "Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?"
    
    "I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
    lady."
    
    "And what arts did he use to separate them?"
    
    "He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam smiling. "He
    only told me, what I have now told you."
    
    Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
    indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
    was so thoughtful.
    
    "I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your
    cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"
    
    "You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"
    
    "I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of
    his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to
    determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy." "But,"
    she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the
    particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
    that there was much affection in the case."
    
    "That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is
    lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."
    
    This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of
    Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and,
    therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent
    matters till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
    as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
    of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
    people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
    could not exist in the world _two_ men, over whom Mr. Darcy could have
    such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
    taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she
    had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
    arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,
    _he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause of all that
    Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a
    while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart
    in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have
    inflicted.
    
    "There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel
    Fitzwilliam's words, and these strong objections probably were, her
    having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
    business in London.
    
    "To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of
    objection. All loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding
    excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could
    any thing be urged against my father, who, though with some
    peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain,
    and respectability which he will probably never reach." When she thought
    of her mother indeed, her confidence gave way a little, but she would
    not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.
    Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from
    the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want
    of sense; and she was quite decided at last, that he had been partly
    governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of
    retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
    
    The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
    headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to
    her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
    cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
    seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much
    as possible prevented her husband from pressing her, but Mr. Collins
    could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
    displeased by her staying at home.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XI.
    
    
    When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
    much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
    examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
    being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
    revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
    But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
    cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,
    proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly
    disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
    noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
    attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
    shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a
    keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to
    think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,
    and a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be
    with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her

    spirits, by all that affection could do.
    
    She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that
    his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
    that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
    mean to be unhappy about him.
    
    While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
    door bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
    being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
    the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But
    this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
    affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
    room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her
    health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
    She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
    then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said
    not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an
    agitated manner, and thus began,
    
    "In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
    repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
    you."
    
    Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
    doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,
    and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,
    immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides
    those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the
    subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
    its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had
    always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed
    due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to
    recommend his suit.
    
    In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
    the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
    not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
    receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
    all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
    answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
    representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of
    all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
    expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
    his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of
    a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his
    countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only
    exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her
    cheeks, and she said,
    
    "In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
    express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
    unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be
    felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
    cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
    bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any
    one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of
    short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the
    acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming
    it after this explanation."
    
    Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed
    on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
    surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of
    his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
    appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed
    himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
    dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,
    
    "And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
    might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
    civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
    
    "I might as well enquire," replied she, "why with so evident a design of
    offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
    against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
    Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
    other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided
    against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been
    favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept
    the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the
    happiness of a most beloved sister?"
    
    As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
    was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
    continued.
    
    "I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
    excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
    you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means
    of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the
    world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for
    disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
    kind."
    
    She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
    with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
    He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
    
    "Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.
    
    With assumed tranquillity he then replied, "I have no wish of denying
    that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your
    sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
    kinder than towards myself."
    
    Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
    but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
    
    "But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike
    is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was
    decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
    many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
    say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
    or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"
    
    "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy in
    a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
    
    "Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
    interest in him?"
    
    "His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes
    have been great indeed."
    
    "And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
    him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have
    withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for
    him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence
    which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and
    yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and
    ridicule."
    
    "And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
    "is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I
    thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
    calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his
    walk, and turning towards her, "these offences might have been
    overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
    scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
    bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy
    concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being
    impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
    reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
    Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.
    Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?
    To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life
    is so decidedly beneath my own?"
    
    Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
    the utmost to speak with composure when she said,
    
    "You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
    declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the
    concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a
    more gentleman-like manner."
    
    She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,
    
    "You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way
    that would have tempted me to accept it."
    
    Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
    expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.
    
    "From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my
    acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest
    belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
    feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of
    disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a
    dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
    last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
    
    "You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
    feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
    Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
    wishes for your health and happiness."
    
    And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
    the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
    
    The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to
    support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an
    hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was
    increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
    marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for
    so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all
    the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her
    sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,
    was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously
    so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
    shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his
    unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,
    and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his
    cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the
    pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.
    
    She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady
    Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter
    Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XII.
    
    
    Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
    which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
    surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of any thing
    else, and totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after
    breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
    directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
    sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
    she turned up the lane, which led her farther from the turnpike road.
    The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed
    one of the gates into the ground.
    
    After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
    tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
    look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent, had
    made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
    verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
    when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
    edged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr.
    Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced, was now
    near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
    her name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in
    a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
    gate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter,
    which she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, "I
    have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
    Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?"--And then, with a
    slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of
    sight.
    
    With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
    Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder,
    perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written
    quite through, in a very close hand.--The envelope itself was likewise
    full.--Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
    from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--
    
         "Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the
         apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments,
         or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to
         you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling
         myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both,
         cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation,
         and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been
         spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.
         You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
         attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
         demand it of your justice.
    
         "Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
         magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned
         was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached
         Mr. Bingley from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in
         defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity,
         ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr.
         Wickham.--Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of
         my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who
         had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who
         had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity,
         to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could
         be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison.--But
         from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally
         bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in
         future secured, when the following account of my actions and their
         motives has been read.--If, in the explanation of them which is
         due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
         may be offensive to your's, I can only say that I am sorry.--The
         necessity must be obeyed--and farther apology would be absurd.--I
         had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
         others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other
         young woman in the country.--But it was not till the evening of the
         dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a
         serious attachment.--I had often seen him in love before.--At that
         ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made
         acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information, that
         Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general
         expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event,
         of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I
         observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then
         perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had
         ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched.--Her look and
         manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any
         symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the
         evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with
         pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
         sentiment.--If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have
         been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make
         the latter probable.--If it be so, if I have been misled by such

         error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been
         unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity
         of your sister's countenance and air was such, as might have given
         the most acute observer, a conviction that, however amiable her
         temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.--That I was
         desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,--but I will
         venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually
         influenced by my hopes or fears.--I did not believe her to be
         indifferent because I wished it;--I believed it on impartial
         conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.--My objections to
         the marriage were not merely those, which I last night acknowledged
         to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my
         own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to
         my friend as to me.--But there were other causes of
         repugnance;--causes which, though still existing, and existing to
         an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to
         forget, because they were not immediately before me.--These causes
         must be stated, though briefly.--The situation of your mother's
         family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that
         total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed
         by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by
         your father.--Pardon me.--It pains me to offend you. But amidst
         your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your
         displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you
         consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to
         avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally
         bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to
         the sense and disposition of both.--I will only say farther, that
         from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was
         confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me
         before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
         connection.--He left Netherfield for London, on the day following,
         as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon
         returning.--The part which I acted, is now to be explained.--His
         sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our
         coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible
         that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly
         resolved on joining him directly in London.--We accordingly
         went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to
         my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.--I described, and
         enforced them earnestly.--But, however this remonstrance might have
         staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it
         would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
         seconded by the assurance which I hesitated not in giving, of your
         sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
         affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.--But Bingley has
         great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment
         than on his own.--To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived
         himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against
         returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given,
         was scarcely the work of a moment.--I cannot blame myself for
         having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the
         whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is
         that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to
         conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as
         it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant
         of it.--That they might have met without ill consequence, is
         perhaps probable;--but his regard did not appear to me enough
         extinguished for him to see her without some danger.--Perhaps this
         concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.--It is done, however,
         and it was done for the best.--On this subject I have nothing more
         to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's
         feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which
         governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have
         not yet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more
         weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only
         refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my
         family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but
         of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one
         witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very
         respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the
         Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his
         trust, naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on
         George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore
         liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and
         afterwards at Cambridge;--most important assistance, as his own
         father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
         been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not
         only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always
         engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the
         church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.
         As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
         of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities--the
         want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
         of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
         of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
         seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
         Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you only can tell.
         But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
         suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
         real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
         died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
         the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
         to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
         profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
         valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
         vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
         father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
         events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
         resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
         unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
         advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
         benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
         and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
         be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
         believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
         accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
         clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
         claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
         ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
         thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
         thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
         society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
         studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
         restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
         about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
         incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
         to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
         assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
         exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
         and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
         present him to the living in question--of which he trusted there
         could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
         person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
         father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
         comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
         His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
         circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
         to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
         appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But

         last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
         must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
         myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
         me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
         doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
         junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
         Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
         school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
         summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
         and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
         proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
         Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
         her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
         whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
         kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
         herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
         fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
         imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
         herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
         intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
         of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
         a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
         and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
         prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
         the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
         her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
         sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
         help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
         strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
         This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
         have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
         it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
         towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
         falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
         be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
         concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
         suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
         wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
         master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
         For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
         particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
         near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
         the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
         with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
         _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
         by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
         be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
         some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
         of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
    
         "FITZWILLIAM DARCY."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIII.
    
    
    If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
    contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
    its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly
    she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
    Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
    she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
    and steadfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to
    give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
    prejudice against every thing he might say, she began his account of
    what had happened at Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which
    hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing
    what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the
    sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's
    insensibility, she instantly resolved to be false, and his account of
    the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have
    any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had
    done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It
    was all pride and insolence.
    
    But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when
    she read with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events, which,
    if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
    bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings
    were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
    Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
    to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false!
    This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"--and when she had
    gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the
    last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
    regard it, that she would never look in it again.
    
    In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
    nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
    was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
    again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
    commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
    The account of his connection with the Pemberley family, was exactly
    what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy,
    though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his
    own words. So far each recital confirmed the other: but when she came to
    the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
    was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
    impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
    other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
    not err. But when she read, and re-read with the closest attention, the
    particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
    to the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three
    thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the
    letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
    impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
    little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on.
    But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
    believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent, as to
    render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
    turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
    
    The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to
    Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
    bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
    entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
    persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
    had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life,
    nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to
    his real character, had information been in her power, she had never
    felt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had
    established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to
    recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
    integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
    Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
    casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class, what Mr. Darcy
    had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no
    such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
    her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
    substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
    the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
    pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
    read. But, alas! the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy,
    received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
    Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
    referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
    himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
    near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
    reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
    him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
    at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
    have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
    cousin's corroboration.
    
    She perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation
    between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips's.
    Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
    struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
    wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
    himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
    with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
    of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
    _he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
    the very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield
    family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
    herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where
    discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr.
    Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the
    father, would always prevent his exposing the son.
    
    How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned!
    His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
    hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
    the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing.
    His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
    either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
    his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
    incautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
    and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
    but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
    asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
    were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
    acquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
    together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen any thing
    that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--any thing that spoke him
    of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was
    esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
    brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of
    his sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling. That had
    his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
    every thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
    that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
    as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
    
    She grew absolutely ashamed of herself.--Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
    could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial,
    prejudiced, absurd.
    
    "How despicably have I acted!" she cried.--"I, who have prided myself on
    my discernment!--I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
    often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my
    vanity, in useless or blameable distrust.--How humiliating is this
    discovery!--Yet, how just a humiliation!--Had I been in love, I could

    not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my
    folly.--Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
    of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
    prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
    concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself."
    
    From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
    which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
    _there_, had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely
    different was the effect of a second perusal.--How could she deny that
    credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to
    give in the other?--He declared himself to have been totally
    unsuspicious of her sister's attachment;--and she could not help
    remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been.--Neither could she
    deny the justice of his description of Jane.--She felt that Jane's
    feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a
    constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great
    sensibility.
    
    When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
    mentioned, in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
    of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
    for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as
    having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
    disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
    than on hers.
    
    The compliment to herself and her sister, was not unfelt. It soothed,
    but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus
    self-attracted by the rest of her family;--and as she considered that
    Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
    relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
    by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she
    had ever known before.
    
    After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
    variety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities,
    and reconciling herself as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
    so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her
    at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of
    appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
    reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.
    
    She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
    called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take
    leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
    an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
    till she could be found.--Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in
    missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
    longer an object. She could think only of her letter.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIV.
    
    
    The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having
    been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
    able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
    good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
    melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
    hastened to console Lady Catherine, and her daughter; and on his return,
    brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship,
    importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
    having them all to dine with her.
    
    Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting, that had
    she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her, as her
    future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
    ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would she have said?--how
    would she have behaved?" were questions with which she amused herself.
    
    Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party.--"I assure
    you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I believe nobody
    feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
    attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to
    me!--They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear
    colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
    seemed to feel it most acutely, more I think than last year. His
    attachment to Rosings, certainly increases."
    
    Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
    were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
    
    Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
    spirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that
    she did not like to go home again so soon, she added,
    
    "But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you
    may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
    company, I am sure."
    
    "I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," replied
    Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power to accept it.--I must be in town
    next Saturday."
    
    "Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
    you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
    can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
    spare you for another fortnight."
    
    "But my father cannot.--He wrote last week to hurry my return."
    
    "Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.--Daughters
    are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
    another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
    far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
    Dawson does not object to the Barouche box, there will be very good room
    for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
    should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large."
    
    "You are all kindness, Madam; but I believe we must abide by our
    original plan."
    
    Lady Catherine seemed resigned.
    
    "Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always
    speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling
    post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send
    somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of
    thing.--Young women should always be properly guarded and attended,
    according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to
    Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men servants go
    with her.--Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady
    Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner.--I
    am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with
    the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention
    it; for it would really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone."
    
    "My uncle is to send a servant for us."
    
    "Oh!--Your uncle!--He keeps a man-servant, does he?--I am very glad you
    have somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change
    horses?--Oh! Bromley, of course.--If you mention my name at the Bell,
    you will be attended to."
    
    Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
    and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
    which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
    occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
    reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
    as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk,
    in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
    recollections.
    
    Mr. Darcy's letter, she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
    studied every sentence: and her feelings towards its writer were at
    times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
    she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
    she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
    herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
    His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
    could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or
    feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
    behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
    the unhappy defects of her family a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
    They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
    them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
    youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
    herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
    united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
    and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
    what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
    irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
    affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
    scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
    there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
    Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for
    ever.
    
    Anxiety on Jane's behalf, was another prevailing concern, and Mr.
    Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good
    opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was
    proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame,
    unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his
    friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so
    desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for
    happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own
    family!
    
    When to these recollections was added the developement of Wickham's
    character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
    seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
    almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
    
    Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
    her stay, as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
    there; and her Ladyship again enquired minutely into the particulars of
    their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
    and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
    way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
    work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
    
    When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
    a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
    and Miss De Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
    hand to both.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XV.
    
    
    On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
    minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
    paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
    
    "I know not, Miss Elizabeth," said he, "whether Mrs. Collins has yet
    expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us, but I am very
    certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
    it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know
    how little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain
    manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we
    see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
    yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
    and that we have done every thing in our power to prevent your spending
    your time unpleasantly."
    
    Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had
    spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
    Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
    feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling
    solemnity replied,
    
    "It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your
    time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most
    fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior
    society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of
    varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that
    your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation
    with regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of
    extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on
    what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In
    truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble
    parsonage, I should not think any one abiding in it an object of
    compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."
    
    Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
    obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
    and truth in a few short sentences.
    
    "You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
    Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
    be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
    have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
    that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
    as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
    that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
    marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
    thinking. There is in every thing a most remarkable resemblance of
    character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
    other."
    
    Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
    the case, and with equal sincerity could add that she firmly believed
    and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
    have the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from
    whom they sprung. Poor Charlotte!--it was melancholy to leave her to
    such society!--But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though
    evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to
    ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her
    poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their
    charms.
    
    At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
    placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
    parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
    Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning
    her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
    for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
    compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
    in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when
    he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
    hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings.
    
    "But," he added, "you will of course wish to have your humble respects
    delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
    while you have been here."
    
    Elizabeth made no objection;--the door was then allowed to be shut, and
    the carriage drove off.
    
    "Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes silence, "it seems but
    a day or two since we first came!--and yet how many things have
    happened!"
    
    "A great many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.
    
    "We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there
    twice!--How much I shall have to tell!"
    
    Elizabeth privately added, "And how much I shall have to conceal."
    
    Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
    within four hours of their leaving Hunsford, they reached Mr. Gardiner's
    house, where they were to remain a few days.
    
    Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
    spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt
    had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
    Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.
    
    It was not without an effort meanwhile that she could wait even for
    Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
    that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
    Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
    vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
    to openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision
    in which she remained, as to the extent of what she should communicate;
    and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into
    repeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister
    farther.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVI.
    
    
    It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
    together from Gracechurch-street, for the town of ---- in Hertfordshire;
    and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was
    to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
    punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up
    stairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily
    employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on
    guard, and dressing a sallad and cucumber.
    
    After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
    out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
    "Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?"
    
    "And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia; "but you must lend us the
    money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there." Then shewing
    her purchases: "Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it
    is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
    pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
    better."
    
    And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
    unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
    when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
    think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
    one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
    are going in a fortnight."
    
    "Are they indeed?" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
    
    "They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
    take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme,
    and I dare say would hardly cost any thing at all. Mamma would like to
    go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
    have!"
    
    "Yes," thought Elizabeth, "_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed,
    and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
    campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
    regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton."
    
    "Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down to
    table. "What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about
    a certain person that we all like."
    
    Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he
    need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,
    
    "Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
    waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
    things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
    he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
    my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?
    There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
    is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe."
    
    "And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a connection
    imprudent as to fortune."
    
    "She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."
    
    "But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side," said Jane.
    
    "I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it he never cared
    three straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled
    thing?"
    
    Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
    coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
    was little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied
    liberal!
    
    As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
    ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
    boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
    Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.
    
    "How nicely we are crammed in!" cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my
    bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
    let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
    home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all,
    since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
    flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
    before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
    She is almost three and twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
    being married before three and twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to
    get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
    Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
    how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
    chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
    of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
    the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
    evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
    she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
    was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
    dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a
    lady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Col. and Mrs.
    Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
    one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
    and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
    did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
    Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
    something, and then they soon found out what was the matter."
    
    With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia,
    assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
    companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
    could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.
    
    Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
    in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
    say voluntarily to Elizabeth,
    
    "I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."
    
    Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
    came to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects
    which occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table,
    after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was
    doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present
    fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other,
    retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice
    rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various
    pleasures of the morning to any body who would hear her.
    
    "Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
    as we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended
    there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if
    Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we
    behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest
    cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have
    treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought
    we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter.
    And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so
    loud, that any body might have heard us ten miles off!"
    
    To this, Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear sister,
    to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with
    the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms
    for _me_. I should infinitely prefer a book."
    
    But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to any
    body for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
    
    In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to
    Meryton and see how every body went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed
    the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at
    home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was
    another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again,
    and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_,
    of the regiment's approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In
    a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be
    nothing more to plague her on his account.
    
    She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton
    scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
    frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
    father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
    at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
    disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVII.
    
    
    Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no
    longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular
    in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,
    she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.
    Darcy and herself.
    
    Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
    partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
    natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
    sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
    little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
    unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
    
    "His being so sure of succeeding, was wrong," said she; "and certainly
    ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
    disappointment."
    
    "Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
    other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
    You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?"
    
    "Blame you! Oh, no."
    
    "But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham."
    
    "No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."
    
    "But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very
    next day."
    
    She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
    as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
    who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
    so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
    collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
    grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
    Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
    seek to clear one, without involving the other.
    
    "This will not do," said Elizabeth. "You never will be able to make both
    of them good for any thing. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
    with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
    enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
    about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.
    Darcy's, but you shall do as you chuse."
    
    It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.
    
    "I do not know when I have been more shocked," said she. "Wickham so
    very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only
    consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
    knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of
    his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
    so."
    
    "Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
    full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
    growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
    makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
    be as light as a feather."
    
    "Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his
    countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner."
    
    "There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
    two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
    appearance of it."
    
    "I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
    used to do."

    
    "And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
    to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
    opening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
    abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing
    at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."
    
    "Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
    the matter as you do now."
    
    "Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very
    uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to, of what I
    felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and
    vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!"
    
    "How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
    in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
    undeserved."
    
    "Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness, is a most
    natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is
    one point, on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
    ought, or ought not to make our acquaintance in general understand
    Wickham's character."
    
    Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, "Surely there can be no
    occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?"
    
    "That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to
    make his communication public. On the contrary every particular relative
    to his sister, was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and
    if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who
    will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent,
    that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to
    attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham
    will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here,
    what he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we
    may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will
    say nothing about it."
    
    "You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
    ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
    re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate."
    
    The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
    got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
    and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
    to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
    of which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
    half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
    had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could
    partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
    understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this
    last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very
    improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell
    what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
    liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!"
    
    She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
    state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
    very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in
    love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from
    her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often

    boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to
    every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
    feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those
    regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their
    tranquillity.
    
    "Well, Lizzy," said Mrs. Bennet one day, "what is your opinion _now_ of
    this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
    of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I
    cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a
    very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least
    chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his
    coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every
    body too, who is likely to know."
    
    "I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more."
    
    "Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
    shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was
    her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure
    Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he
    has done."
    
    But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
    she made no answer.
    
    "Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the
    Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it
    will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
    excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,
    she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
    housekeeping, I dare say."
    
    "No, nothing at all."
    
    "A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will
    take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
    for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
    talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it
    quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens."
    
    "It was a subject which they could not mention before me."
    
    "No. It would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt, they
    often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
    estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be
    ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVIII.
    
    
    The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
    the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in
    the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
    universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
    and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
    frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
    Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
    hard-heartedness in any of the family.
    
    "Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!" would they
    often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so,
    Lizzy?"
    
    Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
    she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years
    ago.
    
    "I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel
    Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart."
    
    "I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.
    
    "If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.
    
    "Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
    disagreeable."
    
    "A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever."
    
    "And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,"
    added Kitty.
    
    Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
    Longbourn-house. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
    of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
    objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his
    interference in the views of his friend.
    
    But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
    received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the
    regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
    very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
    and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
    their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.
    
    The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
    the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
    to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew
    about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for every one's
    congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
    whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate
    in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
    
    "I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,"
    said she, "though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
    right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older."
    
    In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
    her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
    exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
    considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense
    for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
    known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
    go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
    behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
    such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
    imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must

    be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,
    
    "Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public
    place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little
    expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
    circumstances."
    
    "If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage to
    us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
    imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
    would judge differently in the affair."
    
    "Already arisen!" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away
    some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
    squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity,
    are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows
    who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."
    
    "Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
    of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
    importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the
    wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
    Lydia's character. Excuse me--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
    father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
    of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
    her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
    will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
    that ever made herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt too, in the
    worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
    youth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of
    her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
    contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty
    is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
    ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrouled! Oh! my dear father, can you
    suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
    they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
    disgrace?"
    
    Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and
    affectionately taking her hand, said in reply,
    
    "Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known,
    you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
    advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three very silly
    sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
    Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
    keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
    object of prey to any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance
    even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
    women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
    there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
    many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest
    of her life."
    
    With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
    continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
    in her nature, however, to increase her vexations, by dwelling on them.
    She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over
    unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
    disposition.
    
    Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
    father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
    united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
    every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw with the creative eye of
    fancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers. She
    saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at
    present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp; its tents
    stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
    and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she
    saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
    officers at once.
    
    Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and
    such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could
    have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the
    same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the
    melancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there
    himself.
    
    But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
    continued with little intermission to the very day of Lydia's leaving
    home.
    
    Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
    frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
    well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
    learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her,
    an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
    behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
    for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which
    had marked the early part of their acquaintance, could only serve, after
    what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
    finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
    gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
    reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
    cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified
    and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.
    
    On the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Meryton, he dined
    with others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
    disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
    enquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
    mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
    weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.
    
    He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
    recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
    him often; and after observing that he was a very gentleman-like man,
    asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
    With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added, "How long did you
    say that he was at Rosings?"
    
    "Nearly three weeks."
    
    "And you saw him frequently?"
    
    "Yes, almost every day."
    
    "His manners are very different from his cousin's."
    
    "Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance."
    
    "Indeed!" cried Wickham with a look which did not escape her. "And pray
    may I ask?" but checking himself, he added in a gayer tone, "Is it in
    address that he improves? Has he deigned to add ought of civility to his
    ordinary style? for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower and more
    serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."
    
    "Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much
    what he ever was."
    
    While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
    rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
    something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
    and anxious attention, while she added,
    
    "When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
    either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that from
    knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."
    
    Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
    look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his
    embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
    accents,
    
    "You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
    comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
    even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
    may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter
    him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that
    the sort of cautiousness, to which you, I imagine, have been alluding,
    is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and
    judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her, has always operated, I
    know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his
    wish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he
    has very much at heart."
    
    Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
    slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
    the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
    him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side,
    of usual cheerfulness, but with no farther attempt to distinguish

    Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
    mutual desire of never meeting again.
    
    When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
    from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
    between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
    only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
    Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
    and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the
    opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible; advice, which there
    was every reason to believe would be attended to; and in the clamorous
    happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus
    of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIX.
    
    
    Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
    not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic
    comfort. Her father captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
    of good humour, which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
    woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in
    their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
    esteem, and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of
    domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a
    disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
    imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
    console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
    the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
    enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
    her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
    the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
    wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
    philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
    
    Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
    father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
    respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
    herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
    banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
    and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
    children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
    strongly as now, the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
    unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils
    arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly
    used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,
    even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.
    
    When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found little
    other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
    abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and
    sister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around
    them, threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
    might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
    of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
    greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her
    folly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a watering
    place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been
    sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward
    with impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the
    satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
    name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have
    some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
    again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
    present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
    was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
    for all the uncomfortable hours, which the discontentedness of her
    mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in
    the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
    
    "But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish for.
    Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
    But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
    sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
    pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can
    never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
    the defence of some little peculiar vexation."
    
    When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very minutely
    to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
    always very short. Those to her mother, contained little else, than that
    they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
    had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
    made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
    she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
    violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the
    camp;--and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less
    to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much
    too full of lines under the words to be made public.
    
    After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
    humour and cheerfulness began to re-appear at Longbourn. Everything wore
    a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
    back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
    was restored to her usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June
    Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
    tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by
    the following Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
    mention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious
    arrangement at the war-office, another regiment should be quartered in
    Meryton.
    
    The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast
    approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
    arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
    curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
    setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
    within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so
    far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
    the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
    the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the
    present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that
    county, there was enough to be seen, to occupy the chief of their three
    weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
    town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
    they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
    her curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
    Dovedale, or the Peak.
    
    Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
    the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
    was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
    and all was soon right again.
    
    With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was
    impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
    owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county with impunity,
    and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."
    
    The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
    before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and
    Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
    Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
    younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
    Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
    sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
    way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.
    
    The Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next
    morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One
    enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a
    suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
    inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
    and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
    disappointments abroad.
    
    It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
    nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
    lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are
    sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
    concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
    former residence, and where she had lately learned that some
    acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen
    all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of
    Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It
    was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
    talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an
    inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
    willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
    
    "My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so
    much?" said her aunt. "A place too, with which so many of your
    acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
    know."
    
    Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
    Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
    must own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many,
    she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house
    richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but the
    grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
    country."
    
    Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
    possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
    occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and
    thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run
    such a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally
    resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as
    to the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered.
    
    Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
    whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its
    proprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
    the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
    alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
    curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
    next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
    with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
    to the scheme.
    
    To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
    
    
    END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
    
    
    
    
    [Illustration: MATLOCK]
    
    
    
    
    PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:
    
    A Novel.
    
    In Three Volumes.
    
    By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."
    
    VOL. III.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    London:
    Printed for T. Egerton,
    Military Library, Whitehall.
    1813.
    
    
    
    
    [Illustration: DOVE-DALE]
    
    
    
    
    PRIDE & PREJUDICE.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER I.
    
    
    Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
    Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
    in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
    
    The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
    entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
    a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.
    
    Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
    every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
    half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
    eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
    Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
    the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone
    building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high
    woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
    swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
    were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
    had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
    beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
    all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that
    to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
    
    They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
    while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of
    meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
    mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
    hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
    wonder at her being where she was.
    
    The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less
    fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
    followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned
    room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
    to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from
    which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the
    distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was
    good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered
    on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace
    it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were
    taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to
    be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable
    to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration
    of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
    splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
    
    "And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With
    these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
    viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
    welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no,"--recollecting
    herself,--"that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost
    to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them."
    
    This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret.
    
    She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really
    absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was
    asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds
    replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a
    large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
    journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
    
    Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw
    the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
    over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
    The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a
    young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been
    brought up by him at his own expence.--"He is now gone into the army,"
    she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
    
    Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
    return it.
    
    "And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
    "is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
    other--about eight years ago."
    
    "I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner,
    looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
    us whether it is like or not."
    
    Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
    intimation of her knowing her master.
    
    "Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"
    
    Elizabeth coloured, and said--"A little."
    
    "And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?"
    
    "Yes, very handsome."
    
    "I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
    will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
    master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
    be then. He was very fond of them."
    
    This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
    
    Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
    when she was only eight years old.

    
    "And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner.
    
    "Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
    accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a
    new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
    comes here to-morrow with him."
    
    Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her
    communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
    from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
    master and his sister.
    
    "Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"
    
    "Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
    time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."
    
    "Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."
    
    "If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
    
    "Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
    good enough for him."
    
    Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is
    very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
    
    "I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows
    him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far;
    and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,
    "I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him
    ever since he was four years old."
    
    This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
    ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest
    opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more,
    and was grateful to her uncle for saying,
    
    "There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
    having such a master."
    
    "Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not
    meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
    good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he
    was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the
    world."
    
    Elizabeth almost stared at her.--"Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she.
    
    "His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.
    
    "Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
    as affable to the poor."
    
    Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
    Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject
    of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
    furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
    prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
    master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
    many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
    
    "He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever
    lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but
    themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will
    give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never
    saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
    away like other young men."
    
    "In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.
    
    "This fine account of him," whispered her aunt, as they walked, "is not
    quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."
    
    "Perhaps we might be deceived."
    
    "That is not very likely; our authority was too good."
    
    On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shewn into a very
    pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
    lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but
    just done, to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the
    room, when last at Pemberley.
    
    "He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
    one of the windows.
    
    Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
    the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added.--"Whatever
    can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There
    is nothing he would not do for her."
    
    The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were
    all that remained to be shewn. In the former were many good paintings;
    but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
    visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
    Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
    also more intelligible.
    
    In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
    little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest
    of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it
    arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with
    such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,
    when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in
    earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the
    gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his
    father's life time.
    
    There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
    sensation towards the original, than she had ever felt in the height of
    their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
    was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
    of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
    considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--How
    much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!--How much of
    good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
    forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
    stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
    upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
    gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
    softened its impropriety of expression.
    
    When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
    they returned down stairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were
    consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.
    
    As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
    to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was
    conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
    suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
    
    They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
    appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
    instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest
    blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from
    surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
    and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
    of perfect civility.
    
    She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,
    received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
    overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
    they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
    that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
    beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
    aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
    scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she
    returned to his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the
    alteration in his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he
    uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
    impropriety of her being found there, recurring to her mind, the few
    minutes in which they continued together, were some of the most
    uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he
    spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his
    enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay
    in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
    distraction of his thoughts.
    
    At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
    moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
    leave.
    
    The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his
    figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own
    feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and
    vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged
    thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a
    disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if
    she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come?
    or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been
    only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
    discrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that
    moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and
    again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so
    strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to
    her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her
    family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified,
    never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting.
    What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosing's Park, when
    he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor how to
    account for it.
    
    They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
    every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
    reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
    before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
    mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed
    to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
    distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
    one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
    was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in
    what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing,
    she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil, only because he
    felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was
    not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing
    her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
    composure.
    
    At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind

    roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
    
    They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
    ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening
    of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of
    the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods
    overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner
    expressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be
    beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten
    miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed
    circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among
    hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts.
    They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of
    the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and
    the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the
    stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered
    it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed
    the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
    who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of
    returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
    therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
    on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
    progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
    taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
    occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man
    about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
    slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was
    quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
    approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less
    sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they
    met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an
    interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
    calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
    she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea
    lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
    turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw,
    that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
    politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
    but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
    some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
    Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour
    changed, and she said no more.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
    her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
    This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and
    she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the
    acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had
    revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought
    she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of
    fashion."
    
    The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
    relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
    it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
    could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
    connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so
    far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
    conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
    could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had
    some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
    attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
    expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
    his taste, or his good manners.
    
    The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy
    invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
    chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same
    time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
    the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
    walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her
    wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the
    compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was
    extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From
    what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake
    that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not
    work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love
    me."
    
    After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
    gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the
    brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
    water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in
    Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
    Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
    her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
    together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to
    know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
    place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
    very unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
    you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we

    left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in
    the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that
    business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
    before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
    will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some
    who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
    
    Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
    driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned
    between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was
    not very differently engaged.
    
    "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a
    pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow
    me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
    during your stay at Lambton?"
    
    The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
    for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
    that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her,
    must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was
    satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
    him think really ill of her.
    
    They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
    was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
    pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of
    the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
    reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
    mile behind.
    
    He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
    tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might
    have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
    there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that
    she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with

    great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience
    and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was over. On
    Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the
    house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted
    on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies
    into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking
    slowly towards the house.
    
    The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
    pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected.
    "He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.
    
    "There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her
    aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
    say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,
    _I_ have seen nothing of it."
    
    "I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
    than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
    attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."
    
    "To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham;
    or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are
    perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so
    disagreeable?"
    
    Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
    him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never
    seen him so pleasant as this morning.
    
    "But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied
    her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
    at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and
    warn me off his grounds."
    
    Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said
    nothing.
    
    "From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really
    should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
    any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured
    look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when
    he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that
    would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure,
    the good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming
    character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a
    liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant
    comprehends every virtue."
    
    Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
    his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as
    guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his
    relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
    construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
    Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
    confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
    transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
    her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
    approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
    the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
    to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of
    any thing else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had
    no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
    acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an
    intercourse renewed after many years discontinuance.
    
    The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
    much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
    but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above
    all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER II.
    
    
    Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
    her, the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
    resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
    But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own
    arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the

    place with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn
    to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
    carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a
    curricle, driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognising the
    livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise
    to her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she
    expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
    of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
    of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
    the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt
    that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such
    a quarter, than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
    newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
    Elizabeth's feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed
    at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she
    dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in
    her favour; and more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
    suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
    
    She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
    up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks
    of enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt, as made every thing worse.
    
    Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
    took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see, that her new
    acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
    being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
    but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her, that she was
    only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
    her beyond a monosyllable.
    
    Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
    little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
    womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there
    was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
    unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
    acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
    relieved by discerning such different feelings.
    
    They had not been long together, before Darcy told her that Bingley was
    also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
    satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step
    was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
    Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but, had she
    still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the
    unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself, on seeing her
    again. He enquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family,
    and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever
    done.
    
    To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
    than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
    them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
    arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards
    each with an earnest, though guarded, enquiry; and they soon drew from
    those enquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what
    it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in
    doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
    evident enough.
    
    Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
    feelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to
    make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
    feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
    endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
    was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
    
    In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh!
    how ardently did she long to know, whether any of his were directed in a
    like manner. Sometimes she could fancy, that he talked less than on
    former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that
    as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though
    this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour
    to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival of Jane. No look appeared
    on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between
    them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was
    soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they
    parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of
    Jane, not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that
    might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a
    moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had
    something of real regret, that it "was a very long time since he had had
    the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply, he added, "It
    is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when
    we were all dancing together at Netherfield."
    
    Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
    took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest,
    whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the
    question, nor in the preceding remark, but there was a look and a manner
    which gave them meaning.
    
    It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but,
    whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
    complaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far
    removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
    the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however
    temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
    she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the good opinion
    of people, with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
    disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
    very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
    lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the change was so
    great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
    restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
    of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at
    Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
    self-consequence, or unbending reserve as now, when no importance could
    result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
    acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw
    down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
    Rosings.
    
    Their visitors staid with them above half an hour, and when they arose
    to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
    their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
    at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
    diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
    readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
    how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
    acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however,
    that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment, than
    any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
    society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
    her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
    
    Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
    again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many enquiries to
    make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
    this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and on
    this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors
    left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some
    satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
    little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her
    uncle and aunt, she staid with them only long enough to hear their
    favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
    
    But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
    not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
    much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
    it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
    interest, but nothing to justify enquiry.
    
    Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
    as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
    not be untouched by his politeness, and had they drawn his character
    from their own feelings, and his servant's report, without any reference
    to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known,
    would not have recognised it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
    however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible,
    that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
    years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
    hastily rejected. Neither had any thing occurred in the intelligence of
    their Lambton friends, that could materially lessen its weight. They
    had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if
    not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small
    market-town, where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged,
    however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
    
    With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
    there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns, with the
    son of his patron, were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well known
    fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
    him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
    
    As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
    the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
    long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and
    she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She
    certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
    had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
    that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
    valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
    time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened
    into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his
    favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
    which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
    there was a motive within her of good will which could not be
    overlooked. It was gratitude.--Gratitude, not merely for having once
    loved her, but for loving her still well enough, to forgive all the
    petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the
    unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been
    persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this
    accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without
    any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where
    their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion
    of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a
    change in a man of so much pride, excited not only astonishment but
    gratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such
    its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means
    unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she
    esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his
    welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to
    depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both
    that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still
    possessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses.
    
    It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that
    such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's, in coming to them on the very
    day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late
    breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by
    some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it
    would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
    morning. They were, therefore, to go.--Elizabeth was pleased, though,
    when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
    
    Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
    renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
    some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER III.
    
    
    Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
    originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome
    her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with
    how much civility on that lady's side, the acquaintance would now be
    renewed.

    
    On reaching the house, they were shewn through the hall into the saloon,
    whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
    opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
    hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chesnuts
    which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
    
    In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
    with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
    London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil; but attended with
    all that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the
    fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves
    inferior, the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and
    her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.
    
    By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a curtsey; and
    on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
    succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
    genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
    of discourse, proved her to be more truly well bred than either of the
    others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
    Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
    wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
    short sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard.
    
    Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
    and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
    calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
    from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
    inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
    of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
    moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
    feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
    she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
    sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss
    Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
    enquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
    indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.
    
    The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
    entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
    finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a
    significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
    given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
    party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
    beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected
    them round the table.
    
    While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
    she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
    feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
    a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
    regret that he came.
    
    He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
    gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
    only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
    Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely
    resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more
    necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
    saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
    and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
    when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
    curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
    smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
    objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
    to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
    entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he
    was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded,
    as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
    Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
    first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,
    
    "Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton?
    They must be a great loss to _your_ family."
    
    In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
    instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
    various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
    but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
    presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While
    she spoke, an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened
    complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
    confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
    pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have
    refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
    Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
    her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
    Darcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and
    absurdities, by which some part of her family were connected with that
    corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated
    elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secresy was
    possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections her
    brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish
    which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
    hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
    meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
    Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
    for the welfare of his friend.
    
    Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
    as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
    Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
    to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
    recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
    had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have
    fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully.
    
    Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
    above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
    carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on
    Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join
    her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his
    judgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as
    to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than
    lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley
    could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to
    his sister.
    
    "How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I
    never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter.
    She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we
    should not have known her again."
    
    However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
    himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than
    her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
    summer.
    
    "For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see
    any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
    brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants
    character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
    tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which
    have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing
    extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not
    like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency
    without fashion, which is intolerable."
    
    Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not

    the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
    wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
    success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a
    determination of making him speak, she continued,
    
    "I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
    were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
    your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
    a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
    seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
    one time."
    
    "Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_
    was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have
    considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."
    
    He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
    having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during
    their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested
    them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were
    discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention.
    They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every
    thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner
    thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by
    her niece's beginning the subject.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER IV.
    
    
    Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
    Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had
    been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
    on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the
    receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
    it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
    Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.
    
    They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her
    uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
    themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been
    written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
    little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
    but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
    agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:
    
         "Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of
         a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming
         you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to
         poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were
         all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was
         gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth,
         with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not
         seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a
         match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that
         his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I
         can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it)

         marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,
         for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother
         is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I,
         that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must
         forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as
         is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
         eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must
         have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason
         to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife,
         informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be
         long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make
         it out, but I hardly know what I have written."
    
    Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
    what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the
    other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
    had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
    
         "By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
         letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
         confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
         for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
         write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
         Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia
         would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for
         there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
         Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day
         before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
         letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to
         Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief
         that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which
         was repeated to Colonel F. who instantly taking the alarm, set off
         from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to
         Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed
         into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them
         from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen
         to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making
         every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into
         Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at
         the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success, no such
         people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he
         came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner
         most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and
         Mrs. F. but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my
         dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst,
         but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it
         more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to
         pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design
         against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely,
         can I suppose her so lost to every thing?--Impossible. I grieve to
         find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their
         marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he
         feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill
         and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but
         this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life
         saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed
         their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence one cannot
         wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared
         something of these distressing scenes; but now as the first shock
         is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so
         selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I
         take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not,
         but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging
         you all to come here, as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and
         aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have
         still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to
         London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What
         he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress
         will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest
         way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again
         to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and
         assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately
         comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."
    
    "Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
    as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a
    moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was
    opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
    manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to
    speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's
    situation, hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you.
    I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be
    delayed; I have not an instant to lose."
    
    "Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than
    politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute,
    but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
    not well enough;--you cannot go yourself."
    
    Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how
    little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
    the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an
    accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
    mistress home, instantly.
    
    On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and
    looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
    or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
    "Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you
    present relief?--A glass of wine;--shall I get you one?--You are very
    ill."
    
    "No, I thank you;" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There
    is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by
    some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."
    
    She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
    not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
    something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
    silence. At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from
    Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My
    youngest sister has left all her friends--has eloped;--has thrown
    herself into the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together
    from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no
    money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for
    ever."
    
    Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added, in a yet
    more agitated voice, "that _I_ might have prevented it!--_I_ who knew
    what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what
    I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
    have happened. But it is all, all too late now."
    
    "I am grieved, indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is it
    certain, absolutely certain?"
    
    "Oh yes!--They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
    almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
    Scotland."
    
    "And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"
    
    "My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
    immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But
    nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
    such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
    not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"
    
    Darcy shook his head in silent acquiesence.
    
    "When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character.--Oh! had I known what
    I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
    much. Wretched, wretched, mistake!"
    
    Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up
    and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air
    gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power
    was sinking; every thing _must_ sink under such a proof of family
    weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
    wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
    consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
    was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
    wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
    him, as now, when all love must be vain.
    
    But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
    humiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up
    every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
    Elizabeth was soon lost to every thing else; and, after a pause of
    several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the
    voice of her companion, who, in a manner, which though it spoke
    compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, "I am afraid you have been
    long desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my
    stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to heaven that any
    thing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer
    consolation to such distress.--But I will not torment you with vain
    wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This
    unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure
    of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."
    
    "Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
    urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
    long as it is possible.--I know it cannot be long."
    
    He readily assured her of his secrecy--again expressed his sorrow for
    her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
    reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
    one serious, parting, look, went away.
    
    As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
    should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had
    marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
    retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of
    contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
    feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
    formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
    
    If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
    change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
    otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
    unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a

    first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
    exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
    somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,
    and that its ill-success might perhaps authorise her to seek the other
    less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
    with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
    produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
    business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
    a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
    could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
    of her feelings on this developement. While the contents of the first
    letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
    Wickham should marry a girl, whom it was impossible he could marry for
    money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him, had appeared
    incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
    as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not
    suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the
    intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
    her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
    prey.
    
    She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
    Lydia had any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia had
    wanted only encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes one
    officer, sometimes another had been her favourite, as their attentions
    raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually
    fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and

    mistaken indulgence towards such a girl.--Oh! how acutely did she now
    feel it.
    
    She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot, to
    share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
    family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
    requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
    could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
    importance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience
    was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,
    by the servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill;--but
    satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the
    cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on
    the postscript of the last, with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had
    never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be
    deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after
    the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily
    promised every assistance in his power.--Elizabeth, though expecting no
    less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated
    by one spirit, every thing relating to their journey was speedily
    settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be
    done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was
    here when you sent for us;--was it so?"
    
    "Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
    _That_ is all settled."
    
    "That is all settled;" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
    prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
    truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!"
    
    But wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her in the
    hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
    to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
    impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
    business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
    be written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their
    sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
    Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
    remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
    the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
    have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER V.
    
    
    "I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they
    drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
    more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the
    matter. It appears to me so very unlikely, that any young man should
    form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
    friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
    am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
    would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
    regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
    not adequate to the risk."
    
    "Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
    
    "Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's
    opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
    interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of
    Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
    him capable of it?"
    
    "Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect
    I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not
    hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the
    case?"
    
    "In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof
    that they are not gone to Scotland."
    
    "Oh! but their removing from the chaise into an hackney coach is such a
    presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
    Barnet road."
    
    "Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
    for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is
    not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
    might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
    expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland."
    
    "But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
    marriage be private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular
    friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
    to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
    cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she
    beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake,
    forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
    restraint the apprehension of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
    dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
    nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
    other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no
    brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
    behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
    seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
    do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
    such a matter."
    
    "But can you think that Lydia is so lost to every thing but love of him,
    as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?"
    
    "It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with
    tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
    a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
    Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
    been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,
    nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement
    and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
    and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
    Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
    flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing
    every thing in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
    greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
    naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
    person and address that can captivate a woman."
    
    "But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so ill of
    Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt."
    
    "Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
    their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt,
    till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
    Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
    sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is
    as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating."
    
    "And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
    as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
    
    "I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day,
    of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at
    Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved
    with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
    circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
    relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
    what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
    reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
    must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
    her."
    
    "But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you
    and Jane seem so well to understand?"
    
    "Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
    so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
    ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
    was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
    case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
    necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it
    apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
    neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it
    was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of
    opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could
    be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
    consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far
    enough from my thoughts."

    
    "When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
    suppose, to believe them fond of each other."
    
    "Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
    side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
    that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first
    he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
    were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him
    for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any
    particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of
    extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others
    of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
    favourites."
    
           *       *       *       *       *
    
    It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
    to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
    its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
    the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
    Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find
    no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
    
    They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on
    the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a
    comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
    by long expectations.
    
    The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
    on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the
    carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
    faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
    capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
    
    Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss,
    hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs
    from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.
    
    Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
    eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been
    heard of the fugitives.
    
    "Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
    every thing will be well."
    
    "Is my father in town?"
    
    "Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word."
    
    "And have you heard from him often?"
    
    "We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say
    that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
    particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write
    again, till he had something of importance to mention."
    
    "And my mother--How is she? How are you all?"
    
    "My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
    shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
    all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
    Heaven! are quite well."
    
    "But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you
    must have gone through!"
    
    Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their
    conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
    engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of
    the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
    thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
    
    When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
    had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
    found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,
    however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet
    deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
    every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,

    to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage.
    
    Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes
    conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
    tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous
    conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage;
    blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the
    errors of her daughter must be principally owing.
    
    "If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton,
    with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
    had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
    of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
    side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had
    been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have
    the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear
    child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
    Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is
    to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold
    in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what
    we shall do."
    
    They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
    general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told
    her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist
    Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
    
    "Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be
    prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
    It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we
    may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married,
    and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
    lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him
    come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult
    together as to what is to be done."
    
    "Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I
    could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
    wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
    marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
    tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses, to buy them,
    after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from
    fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in,--that I am frightened
    out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me,
    such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at
    heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear
    Lydia, not to give any directions about her clothes, till she has seen
    me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
    how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all."
    
    But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours

    in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in
    her hopes as her fears; and, after talking with her in this manner till
    dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the
    housekeeper, who attended, in the absence of her daughters.
    
    Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
    occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
    oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
    tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
    better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
    most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
    subject.
    
    In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
    too busily engaged in their separate apartments, to make their
    appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her
    toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change
    was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or
    the anger which she had herself incurred in the business, had given
    something more of fretfulness than usual, to the accents of Kitty. As
    for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth
    with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at
    table,
    
    "This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of.
    But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
    each other, the balm of sisterly consolation."
    
    Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
    "Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
    lesson; that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false
    step involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less
    brittle than it is beautiful,--and that she cannot be too much guarded
    in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."
    
    Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to
    make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
    kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
    
    In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an
    hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the
    opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
    satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
    of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
    Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued
    the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it, which
    I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel
    Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement
    took place? They must have seen them together for ever."
    
    "Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
    especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
    grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
    _was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
    any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
    first got abroad, it hastened his journey."
    
    "And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
    their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"
    
    "Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of
    their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
    repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
    inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."
    
    "And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
    doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"
    
    "How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a
    little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in
    marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
    right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how
    imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
    triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last
    letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems,
    of their being in love with each other, many weeks."
    
    "But not before they went to Brighton?"
    
    "No, I believe not."
    
    "And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he
    know his real character?"
    
    "I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
    did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
    affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in
    debt; but I hope this may be false."
    
    "Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
    this could not have happened!"
    
    "Perhaps it would have been better;" replied her sister. "But to expose
    the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present
    feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."
    
    "Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
    wife?"
    
    "He brought it with him for us to see."
    
    Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
    were the contents:
    
         "MY DEAR HARRIET,
    
         "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
         laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
         missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with
         who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the
         world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without
         him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at
         Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the
         surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia
         Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for
         laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my
         engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will
         excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at
         the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my
         clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally
         to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are
         packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you
         will drink to our good journey.
    
         "Your affectionate friend,
    
         "LYDIA BENNET."
    
    "Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had
    finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But
    at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey.
    Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a
    _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"
    
    "I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
    minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
    such confusion!"
    
    "Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who
    did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"
    
    "I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is
    very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
    give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much
    as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen,
    almost took from me my faculties."
    
    "Your attendance upon her, has been too much for you. You do not look
    well. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety
    upon yourself alone."
    
    "Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
    fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.
    Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours
    of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn
    on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
    Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and lady
    Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
    condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if
    they could be of use to us."
    
    "She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she
    _meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too
    little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,
    insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."
    
    She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had
    intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
    
    "He meant, I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where
    they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could
    be made out from them. His principal object must be, to discover the
    number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
    with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a
    gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another, might be
    remarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how
    discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
    determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
    to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
    other designs that he had formed: but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
    and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
    out even so much as this."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VI.
    
    
    The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
    morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
    His family knew him to be on all common occasions, a most negligent and
    dilatory correspondent, but at such a time, they had hoped for exertion.
    They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to
    send, but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
    Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.
    
    When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
    information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
    to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to
    the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
    security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
    days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to
    her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
    great comfort to them, in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
    visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
    cheering and heartening them up, though as she never came without
    reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
    she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
    them.
    
    All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three months
    before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
    to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
    the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
    Every body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
    and every body began to find out, that they had always distrusted the
    appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
    half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
    her sister's ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still
    less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now
    come, when if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before
    entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some
    news of them.
    
    Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a
    letter from him; it told them, that on his arrival, he had immediately
    found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street.
    That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but
    without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
    determined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
    thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
    coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
    did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
    eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr.
    Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present, to leave London, and
    promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this
    effect.
    
    "I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
    possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
    whether Wickham has any relations or connections, who would be likely to
    know in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there
    were any one, that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining
    such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we
    have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do every
    thing in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts,
    perhaps Lizzy could tell us, what relations he has now living, better
    than any other person."
    
    Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for
    her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any
    information of so satisfactory a nature, as the compliment deserved.
    
    She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and
    mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however,
    that some of his companions in the ----shire, might be able to give more
    information; and, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the
    application was a something to look forward to.
    
    Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
    part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was
    the first grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
    whatever of good or bad was to be told, would be communicated, and every
    succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
    
    But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
    their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
    had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
    she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
    letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
    follows:
    
         "MY DEAR SIR,
    
         "I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
         in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
         suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter
         from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and
         myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable
         family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest
         kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No
         arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe
         a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
         must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death
         of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this.
         And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to
         suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness
         of behaviour in your daughter, has proceeded from a faulty degree
         of indulgence, though, at the same time, for the consolation of
         yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own
         disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of
         such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you
         are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined
         by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by lady Catherine and her daughter,
         to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in
         apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be
         injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady
         Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
         with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to
         reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last
         November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in
         all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir,
         to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy
         child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the
         fruits of her own heinous offence.
    
         "I am, dear Sir, &c. &c."
    
    Mr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from
    Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
    It was not known that Wickham had a single relation, with whom he kept
    up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living.
    His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the
    militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship
    with any of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out,
    as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own
    finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to
    his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired
    that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable
    amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would
    be necessary to clear his expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in
    the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr.
    Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn
    family; Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!" she cried. "This is
    wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."
    
    Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
    father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
    spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to
    his brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and
    leave it to him to do, whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
    for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
    not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
    what her anxiety for his life had been before.
    
    "What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!" she cried. "Sure he
    will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
    and make him marry her, if he comes away?"
    
    As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
    and her children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
    came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
    journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
    
    Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
    Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world.
    His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;
    and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of
    their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.
    Elizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from
    Pemberley.
    
    The present unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse for
    the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
    fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
    tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware,
    that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
    Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
    one sleepless night out of two.
    
    When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
    philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
    habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
    away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
    it.
    
    It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that
    Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
    expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say
    nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
    and I ought to feel it."
    
    "You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.
    
    "You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to
    fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
    been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
    It will pass away soon enough."
    
    "Do you suppose them to be in London?"
    
    "Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"
    
    "And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.
    
    "She is happy, then," said her father, drily; "and her residence there
    will probably be of some duration."
    
    Then, after a short silence, he continued, "Lizzy, I bear you no
    ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,
    considering the event, shews some greatness of mind."
    
    They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
    tea.
    
    "This is a parade," cried he, "which does one good; it gives such an
    elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in
    my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble
    as I can,--or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away."
    
    "I am not going to run away, Papa," said Kitty, fretfully; "if _I_
    should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."
    
    "_You_ go to Brighton!--I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne
    for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
    you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house
    again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely
    prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are
    never to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent ten
    minutes of every day in a rational manner."
    
    Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
    
    "Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
    girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
    them."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VII.
    
    
    Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
    together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
    coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
    mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
    when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon,
    madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
    good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."
    
    "What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."
    
    "Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't you know
    there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
    this half hour, and master has had a letter."
    
    Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
    ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room; from thence to the
    library;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
    seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the
    butler, who said,
    
    "If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
    little copse."
    
    Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more,
    and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
    pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
    
    Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as
    Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
    came up with him, and eagerly cried out,
    
    "Oh, Papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?"
    
    "Yes, I have had a letter from him by express."
    
    "Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?"
    
    "What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the letter from
    his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it."
    
    Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
    
    "Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is
    about."
    
         "Gracechurch-street, Monday,
    
         August 2.
    
         "MY DEAR BROTHER,
    
         "At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
         as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after
         you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what
         part of London they were. The particulars, I reserve till we meet.
         It is enough to know they are discovered, I have seen them
         both----"
    
    "Then it is, as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"
    
         Elizabeth read on; "I have seen them both. They are not married,
         nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are
         willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on
         your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
         required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her
         equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your
         children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
         moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your
         life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions, which,
         considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as
         far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
         express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
         will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
         circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to
         be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to
         say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are
         discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune.
         If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act
         in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will
         immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper
         settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming
         to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on
         my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can,
         and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my
         niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will
         approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any
         thing more is determined on. Your's, &c.
    
         "EDW. GARDINER."
    
    "Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be
    possible that he will marry her?"
    
    "Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her
    sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."
    
    "And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth.
    
    "No; but it must be done soon."
    
    Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he
    wrote.
    
    "Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately.
    Consider how important every moment is, in such a case."
    
    "Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble
    yourself."
    
    "I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."
    
    And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
    
    "And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be
    complied with."
    
    "Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."
    
    "And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!"
    
    "Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
    are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money
    your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am
    ever to pay him."
    
    "Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?"
    
    "I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a
    temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am
    gone."
    
    "That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me
    before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
    it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
    distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."
    
    "No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a
    farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so
    ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."
    
    "Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
    repaid?"
    
    Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
    silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the
    library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
    
    "And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
    were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
    thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
    and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!"
    
    "I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would
    not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
    uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
    thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has
    children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten
    thousand pounds?"
    
    "If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said
    Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
    exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
    not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be
    requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
    protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as
    years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
    actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
    she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
    first sees my aunt!"
    
    "We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said
    Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry
    her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
    thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
    they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
    time make their past imprudence forgotten."
    
    "Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor
    I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it."
    
    It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
    perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
    therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to
    make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head,
    coolly replied,
    
    "Just as you please."
    
    "May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"
    
    "Take whatever you like, and get away."
    
    Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up
    stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one
    communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation
    for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly
    contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's
    being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence
    added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from
    delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know
    that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no
    fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
    
    "My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!--She will
    be married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My
    good, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage
    every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
    clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
    them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how
    much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
    Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
    Lydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!"
    
    Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
    these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
    Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
    
    "For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great
    measure, to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself
    to assist Mr. Wickham with money."
    
    "Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but
    her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
    must have had all his money you know, and it is the first time we have
    ever had any thing from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy.
    In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
    it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
    such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you
    write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
    afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."
    
    She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
    cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
    not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait, till her
    father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay she observed,
    would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy, to be quite
    so obstinate as usual. Other schemes too came into her head.
    
    "I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
    good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on
    Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An
    airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do any
    thing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you
    heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
    all have a bowl of punch, to make merry at her wedding."
    
    Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
    congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
    refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
    
    Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no
    worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
    looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity,
    could be justly expected for her sister; in looking back to what they
    had feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they
    had gained.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER VIII.
    
    
    Mr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that,
    instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for
    the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
    him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
    respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle, for whatever of
    honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
    prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
    her husband, might then have rested in its proper place.
    
    He was seriously concerned, that a cause of so little advantage to any
    one, should be forwarded at the sole expence of his brother-in-law, and
    he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his
    assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
    
    When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
    useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join
    in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
    and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
    successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
    Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
    would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too
    late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
    husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
    income.
    
    Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
    the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
    latter, depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
    regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
    could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
    terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though
    expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
    approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
    engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
    that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be
    done with so little inconvenience to himself, as by the present
    arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a-year the loser, by the
    hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
    allowance, and the continual presents in money, which passed to her,
    through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very little within
    that sum.
    
    That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
    another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present, was to
    have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first
    transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were
    over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was
    soon dispatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was
    quick in its execution. He begged to know farther particulars of what he
    was indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia, to send any
    message to her.
    
    The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate
    speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
    philosophy. To be sure it would have been more for the advantage of
    conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
    happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farm
    house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the
    good-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before, from
    all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit
    in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband, her
    misery was considered certain.
    
    It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this
    happy day, she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
    spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
    triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of
    her wishes, since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
    accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
    attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
    servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
    proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
    what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
    importance.
    
    "Haye-Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings would quit it, or the
    great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
    too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
    Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
    
    Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption, while the
    servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, "Mrs.
    Bennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and
    daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
    neighbourhood, they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage
    the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn."
    
    A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it
    soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
    that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
    daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
    affection whatever, on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
    it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
    resentment, as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her
    marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe
    possible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which the want of new
    clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
    shame at her eloping and living with Wickham, a fortnight before they
    took place.
    
    Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
    the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
    her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper
    termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
    unfavourable beginning, from all those who were not immediately on the
    spot.
    
    She had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were
    few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
    but at the same time, there was no one, whose knowledge of a sister's
    frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of
    disadvantage from it, individually to herself; for at any rate, there
    seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
    concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
    Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other
    objection would now be added, an alliance and relationship of the
    nearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned.
    
    From such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The
    wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
    feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
    blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
    hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
    longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
    seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
    she could have been happy with him; when it was no longer likely they
    should meet.
    
    What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
    proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
    have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
    doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal,
    there must be a triumph.
    
    She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man, who, in
    disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
    temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
    was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
    and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved,
    and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must
    have received benefit of greater importance.
    
    But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
    connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
    precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
    family.
    
    How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
    she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
    belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
    were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
    
           *       *       *       *       *
    
    Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
    acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to
    promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with intreaties
    that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
    purport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved
    on quitting the Militia.
    
         "It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as soon
         as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,
         in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both
         on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go
         into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still
         some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the
         promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in
         the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of
         the kingdom. He promises fairly, and I hope among different people,
         where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be
         more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of
         our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the
         various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with
         assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And
         will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances
         to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list,
         according to his information. He has given in all his debts; I hope
         at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and
         all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
         unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from
         Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all,
         before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully
         remembered to you and her mother.--Your's, &c.
    
         "E. GARDINER."
    
    Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
    from the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs.
    Bennet, was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the
    North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her
    company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
    Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a
    pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
    with every body, and had so many favourites.
    
    "She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite shocking
    to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
    likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
    regiment."
    
    His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
    admitted into her family again, before she set off for the North,
    received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who
    agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
    consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
    urged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
    and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
    prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
    mother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to shew
    her married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to
    the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he
    sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon
    as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth
    was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme,
    and, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him
    would have been the last object of her wishes.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER IX.
    
    
    Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
    probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet
    them at ----, and they were to return in it, by dinner-time. Their
    arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets; and Jane more especially,
    who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_
    been the culprit, was wretched in the thought of what her sister must
    endure.
    
    They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room, to receive
    them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to
    the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
    anxious, uneasy.
    
    Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
    she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
    welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to
    Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an
    alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
    
    Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
    so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
    opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
    enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was
    shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and
    fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
    congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
    round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
    observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
    there.
    
    Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
    were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
    exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
    claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
    not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
    resolving within herself, to draw no limits in future to the impudence
    of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of
    the two who caused their confusion, suffered no variation of colour.
    
    There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
    of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
    Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
    with a good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her
    replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
    world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
    voluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for
    the world.
    
    "Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away;
    it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
    enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
    I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
    thought it would be very good fun if I was."
    
    Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
    expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of
    which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the
    people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might
    not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was
    determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to
    him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window
    frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like
    any thing."
    
    Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
    and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
    the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
    anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to
    her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
    lower, because I am a married woman."
    
    It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment,
    from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
    spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all
    their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by
    each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her
    ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
    
    "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
    room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
    am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my
    good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
    husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go."
    
    "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't

    at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"
    
    "Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
    things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
    shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
    balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."
    
    "I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother.
    
    "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
    behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
    winter is over."
    
    "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not
    particularly like your way of getting husbands."
    
    Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
    had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
    his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
    
    No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and
    she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and
    having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
    all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
    think, than such as did not.
    
    Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to
    find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
    present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
    their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
    than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring

    for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
    that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
    if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
    of having a companion.
    
    Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
    occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
    thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
    the first of September, than any body else in the country.
    
    One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
    elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,
    
    "Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were
    not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you
    curious to hear how it was managed?"
    
    "No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said
    on the subject."
    
    "La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
    married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
    that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
    o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
    were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
    such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put
    it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my
    aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if
    she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten,
    for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to
    know whether he would be married in his blue coat.
    
    "Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
    be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
    were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
    me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
    fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was
    rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just
    as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business
    to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get
    together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not
    know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond
    the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back
    again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I
    recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the
    wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well."
    
    "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
    
    "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me!
    I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
    them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"
    
    "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the
    subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."

    
    "Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will
    ask you no questions."
    
    "Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you
    all, and then Wickham would be angry."
    
    On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
    power, by running away.
    
    But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it
    was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her
    sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
    where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
    Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
    brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
    placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
    could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
    wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
    Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
    intended.
    
    "You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to
    know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
    speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
    a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
    for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
    think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
    ignorance."
    
    "Not that I _shall_ though," she added to herself, as she finished the
    letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
    manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
    out."
    
    Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
    Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of
    it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
    satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER X.
    
    
    Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as
    soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than
    hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be
    interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be
    happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
    contain a denial.
    
         "Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.
    
         "MY DEAR NIECE,
    
         "I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
         morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will
         not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
         surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
         Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know,
         that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_
         side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
         impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am--and nothing
         but the belief of your being a party concerned, would have allowed
         him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
         ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming
         home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.
         Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all
         over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked
         as _your's_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that
         he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that
         he had seen and talked with them both, Wickham repeatedly, Lydia
         once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
         after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting
         for them. The motive professed, was his conviction of its being
         owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well
         known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character,
         to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his
         mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath
         him, to lay his private actions open to the world. His character
         was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step
         forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil, which had been brought on
         by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never
         disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
         discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was
         more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this, was another
         reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a
         Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was
         dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though
         he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street,
         and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs.
         Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he
         went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But
         it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
         wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery
         and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be
         found. Wickham indeed had gone to her, on their first arrival in
         London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they
         would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our
         kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ----
         street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.
         His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade
         her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
         friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,
         offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia
         absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none
         of her friends, she wanted no help of his, she would not hear of
         leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
         other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her
         feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a
         marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he
         easily learnt, had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself
         obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour,
         which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the
         ill-consequences of Lydia's flight, on her own folly alone. He
         meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future
         situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go
         somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
         nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your
         sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich,
         he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation
         must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to
         this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more
         effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some other country.
         Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
         against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times,
         for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more
         than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable.
         Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was
         to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in
         Gracechurch-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner
         could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that
         your father was still with him, but would quit town the next
         morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could
         so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed
         seeing him, till after the departure of the former. He did not
         leave his name, and till the next day, it was only known that a
         gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your
         father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they
         had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and
         then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon
         as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor
         was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real
         defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many
         faults at different times; but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was
         to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do
         not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it,) your
         uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it
         together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman
         or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced
         to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece,
         was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
         which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your
         letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an
         explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give
         the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther
         than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose,
         what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid,
         amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds,
         another thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his
         commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him
         alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
         reserve, and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character
         had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been
         received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in
         _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_
         reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this
         fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured, that
         your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit
         for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved
         on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at
         Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more
         when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to
         receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing.
         It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I
         hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to
         us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was
         exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I
         would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour
         while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter
         last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
         piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you, can give you no
         fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,
         representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and
         all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me,
         it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
         sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth
         and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was
         punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the
         wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again
         on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear
         Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
         enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
         in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.
         His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but
         a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his
         wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever
         mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive
         me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so
         far, as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I
         have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
         pair of ponies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more.
         The children have been wanting me this half hour. Your's, very
         sincerely,
    
         "M. GARDINER."
    
    The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
    in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
    greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
    produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
    match, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too
    great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
    pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
    He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
    trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
    supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
    despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,
    persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
    avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
    done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
    heart did whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope
    shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her
    vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for
    her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a
    sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham.
    Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the
    connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how
    much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no
    extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel
    he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising
    it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,
    she could, perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might
    assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be
    materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that
    they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a
    return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing
    to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation
    she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed
    towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him.
    Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get
    the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him
    again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
    sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how
    steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and
    confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
    
    She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
    approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
    overtaken by Wickham.
    
    "I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he,
    as he joined her.
    
    "You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow
    that the interruption must be unwelcome."
    
    "I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends;
    and now we are better."
    
    "True. Are the others coming out?"
    
    "I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
    Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt, that
    you have actually seen Pemberley."
    
    She replied in the affirmative.
    
    "I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
    for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
    old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
    me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."
    
    "Yes, she did."
    
    "And what did she say?"
    
    "That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
    out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
    misrepresented."
    
    "Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
    silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,
    
    "I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
    several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."
    
    "Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said
    Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this
    time of year."
    
    "Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
    understood from the Gardiners that you had."
    
    "Yes; he introduced us to his sister."
    
    "And do you like her?"
    
    "Very much."
    
    "I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
    or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
    you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."
    
    "I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."
    
    "Did you go by the village of Kympton?"
    
    "I do not recollect that we did."
    
    "I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
    most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
    me in every respect."
    
    "How should you have liked making sermons?"
    
    "Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and
    the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
    repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
    quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas
    of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
    circumstance, when you were in Kent?"
    
    "I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
    left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron."
    
    "You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
    first, you may remember."
    
    "I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so
    palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
    declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
    had been compromised accordingly."
    
    "You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
    what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."
    
    They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
    to get rid of him; and unwilling for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
    she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,
    
    "Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us
    quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
    mind."
    
    She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
    he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XI.
    
    
    Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he
    never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
    by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
    had said enough to keep him quiet.
    
    The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was
    forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
    entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
    continue at least a twelvemonth.
    
    "Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
    
    "Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years perhaps."
    
    "Write to me very often, my dear."
    
    "As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
    writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to
    do."
    
    Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
    smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
    
    "He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of
    the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us
    all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
    himself, to produce a more valuable son-in-law."
    
    The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
    
    "I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with
    one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."
    
    "This is the consequence you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said
    Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
    single."
    
    "It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married;
    but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If
    that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."
    
    But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into, was
    shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by
    an article of news, which then began to be in circulation. The
    housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the
    arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot
    there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She
    looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns.
    
    "Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister," (for Mrs.
    Philips first brought her the news.) "Well, so much the better. Not that
    I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure
    _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to
    come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?
    But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
    mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"
    
    "You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in
    Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
    to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
    comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
    going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
    Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks, just fit to be
    killed."
    
    Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming, without changing
    colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
    Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,
    
    "I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
    report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
    any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt
    that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you, that the news does not
    affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he
    comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid
    of _myself_, but I dread other people's remarks."
    
    Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
    Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there, with no
    other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
    to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming
    there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come
    without it.
    
    "Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man cannot come
    to a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this
    speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself."
    
    In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
    feelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
    perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
    more unequal, than she had often seen them.
    
    The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
    about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
    
    "As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "you
    will wait on him of course."
    
    "No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised if I
    went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
    nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."
    
    His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
    would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
    Netherfield.
    
    "'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our society, let
    him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in
    running after my neighbours every time they go away, and come back
    again."
    
    "Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not
    wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine
    here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon.
    That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at
    table for him."
    
    Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
    husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her
    neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it, before _they_
    did. As the day of his arrival drew near,
    
    "I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her sister. "It
    would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
    hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
    but she does not know, no one can know how much I suffer from what she
    says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"
    
    "I wish I could say any thing to comfort you," replied Elizabeth; "but
    it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual
    satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because
    you have always so much."
    
    Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
    contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
    and fretfulness on her side, might be as long as it could. She counted
    the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
    hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
    arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window,
    enter the paddock, and ride towards the house.
    
    Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
    kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went
    to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down
    again by her sister.
    
    "There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"
    
    "Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not
    know."
    
    "La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used to be with
    him before. Mr. what's his name. That tall, proud man."
    
    "Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does I vow. Well, any friend of
    Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here to be sure; but else I must
    say that I hate the very sight of him."
    
    Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little
    of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
    which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time
    after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable
    enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their
    mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be
    civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either
    of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
    suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
    Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
    To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and
    whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
    information, he was the person, to whom the whole family were indebted
    for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
    interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as
    what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his
    coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,
    was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered
    behaviour in Derbyshire.
    
    The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a
    minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
    her eyes, as she thought for that space of time, that his affection and
    wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
    
    "Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be early
    enough for expectation."
    
    She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
    lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her
    sister, as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little
    paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
    gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
    tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
    symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance.
    
    Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
    again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
    had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and
    she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
    she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
    presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
    not an improbable, conjecture.
    
    Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
    saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
    Bennet with a degree of civility, which made her two daughters ashamed,
    especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
    her curtsey and address to his friend.
    
    Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the
    preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was
    hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
    applied.
    
    Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
    which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely any thing.
    He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence;
    but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her
    friends, when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed,
    without bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable
    to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she
    as often found him looking at Jane, as at herself, and frequently on no
    object but the ground. More thoughtfulness, and less anxiety to please
    than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed,
    and angry with herself for being so.
    
    "Could I expect it to be otherwise!" said she. "Yet why did he come?"
    
    She was in no humour for conversation with any one but himself; and to
    him she had hardly courage to speak.
    
    She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.
    
    "It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said Mrs. Bennet.
    
    He readily agreed to it.
    
    "I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say,
    you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope
    it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
    since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my
    own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have
    seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know;
    though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
    George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
    syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing.
    It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
    make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"
    
    Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
    dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
    not tell.
    
    "It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,"
    continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very
    hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
    Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to
    stay, I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you
    have heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the
    regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
    many as he deserves."
    
    Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery
    of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
    however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
    done before; and she asked Bingley, whether he meant to make any stay in
    the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.
    
    "When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said her mother,
    "I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please, on Mr.
    Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
    will save all the best of the covies for you."
    
    Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
    attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had
    flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
    hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt,
    that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends, for
    moments of such painful confusion.
    
    "The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be
    in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure,
    that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either
    one or the other again!"
    
    Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
    compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
    how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her
    former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;
    but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He
    found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as
    unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no
    difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded
    that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
    that she did not always know when she was silent.
    
    When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
    intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at
    Longbourn in a few days time.
    
    "You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when
    you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
    us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure
    you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep
    your engagement."
    
    Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
    his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
    
    Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine
    there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did
    not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a
    man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and
    pride of one who had ten thousand a-year.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XII.
    
    
    As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
    or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
    must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.
    
    "Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she,
    "did he come at all?"
    
    She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
    
    "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when
    he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If
    he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will
    think no more about him."
    
    Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach
    of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her
    better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.
    
    "Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
    easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
    his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
    seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent
    acquaintance."
    
    "Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane,
    take care."
    
    "My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now."
    
    "I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
    you as ever."
    
           *       *       *       *       *
    
    They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in
    the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good
    humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had
    revived.
    
    On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two,
    who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as
    sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
    dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take
    the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
    her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to
    invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
    hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was
    decided. He placed himself by her.
    
    Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He
    bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that
    Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes
    likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing
    alarm.
    
    His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an
    admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
    Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his
    own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
    consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
    gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
    no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her, as the table
    could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little
    such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
    advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
    she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and
    cold was their manner, whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
    made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;
    and she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell
    him, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of
    the family.
    
    She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
    bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
    without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, than
    the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and
    uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the
    gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made her
    uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all
    her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.
    
    "If he does not come to me, _then_," said she, "I shall give him up for
    ever."
    
    The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
    answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
    where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
    in so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her,
    which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
    the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,
    
    "The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
    do we?"
    
    Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
    her eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience
    enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself
    for being so silly!
    
    "A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
    expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
    protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
    There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"
    
    She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
    himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,
    
    "Is your sister at Pemberley still?"
    
    "Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."
    
    "And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"
    
    "Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
    these three weeks."
    
    She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
    with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for
    some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering
    to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
    
    When the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies
    all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when
    all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her
    mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
    with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
    They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had
    nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side
    of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
    
    Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
    supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the
    others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
    
    "Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What
    say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
    I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
    venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat
    a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the
    Lucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges
    were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
    cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater
    beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And
    what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
    at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good
    a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,
    and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously."
    
    Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
    Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
    last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
    humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at
    not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
    
    "It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The
    party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
    may often meet again."
    
    Elizabeth smiled.
    
    "Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I
    assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
    agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
    perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any
    design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with
    greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
    pleasing than any other man."
    
    "You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and
    are provoking me to it every moment."
    
    "How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"
    
    "And how impossible in others!"
    
    "But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
    acknowledge?"
    
    "That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
    instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
    me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your
    confidante."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIII.
    
    
    A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
    friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
    ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably
    good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
    expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
    
    "Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky."
    
    He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would
    give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.
    
    "Can you come to-morrow?"
    
    Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
    accepted with alacrity.
    
    He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them
    dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
    gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,
    
    "My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is
    come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
    Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
    Lizzy's hair."
    
    "We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is
    forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago."
    
    "Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
    where is your sash my dear?"
    
    But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
    without one of her sisters.
    
    The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the
    evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his
    custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the
    five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at
    Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any
    impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last
    Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do
    you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"
    
    "Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five
    minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she
    suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,
    
    "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room.
    Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at
    such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it.
    In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,
    
    "Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."
    
    Elizabeth was forced to go.
    
    "We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as
    soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in
    my dressing-room."
    
    Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
    quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
    into the drawing-room.
    
    Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
    thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
    ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
    evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
    mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
    of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter.
    
    He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went
    away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.
    Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.
    
    After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
    between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in
    the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
    returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
    persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
    concurrence.
    
    Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the
    morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
    agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
    or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him
    into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the
    other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;
    and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get
    every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
    to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;
    for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be
    wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.
    
    But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
    saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
    had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
    sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in

    earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
    both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would
    have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she
    thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
    Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as
    well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few
    words to her sister, ran out of the room.
    
    Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
    pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
    emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
    
    "'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!
    why is not every body as happy?"
    
    Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a
    delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of
    kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not
    allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be
    said, for the present.
    
    "I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any
    account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it
    from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to
    know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
    family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"
    
    She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the
    card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
    
    Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
    with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
    previous months of suspense and vexation.
    
    "And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious
    circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
    happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!"
    
    In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
    father had been short and to the purpose.
    
    "Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.
    
    "With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say."
    
    He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and
    affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her
    delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
    great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen
    to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
    and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
    expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for
    basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of
    Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
    himself.
    
    It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
    Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
    made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
    her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or
    speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
    though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when
    Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed
    how really happy he was.
    
    Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
    visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
    turned to his daughter and said,
    
    "Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."

    
    Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
    goodness.
    
    "You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in
    thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
    doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
    each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
    easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
    always exceed your income."
    
    "I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be
    unpardonable in _me_."
    
    "Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you
    talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely
    more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
    happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
    would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
    be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
    he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
    that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
    ever was seen!"
    
    Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
    favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
    sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
    which she might in future be able to dispense.
    
    Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
    begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
    
    Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
    coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
    supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
    detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought
    himself obliged to accept.
    
    Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
    while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on any one else;
    but she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those
    hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane,
    he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of
    her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of
    relief.
    
    "He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling me, that
    he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not
    believed it possible."
    
    "I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for
    it?"
    
    "It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
    his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
    chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,
    as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will
    learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
    can never be what we once were to each other."
    
    "That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever
    heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
    the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."
    
    "Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,
    he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being
    indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!"
    
    "He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
    modesty."
    
    This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and
    the little value he put on his own good qualities.
    
    Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference
    of his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving
    heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice
    her against him.
    
    "I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried
    Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
    above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but
    such another man for you!"
    
    "If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as

    you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
    happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
    good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time."
    
    The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
    secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and
    _she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her
    neighbours in Meryton.
    
    The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the

    world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,
    they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIV.
    
    
    One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
    formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
    dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
    sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the
    lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
    equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
    were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
    preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
    somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
    the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
    shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
    continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
    open, and their visitor entered. It was lady Catherine de Bourgh.
    
    They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
    astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.
    Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even
    inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
    
    She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
    other reply to Elizabeth's salutation, than a slight inclination of the
    head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her
    name to her mother, on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
    introduction had been made.
    
    Mrs. Bennet all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
    high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
    for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
    
    "I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady I suppose is your mother."
    
    Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
    
    "And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters."
    
    "Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a lady Catherine.
    "She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all, is lately married,
    and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man,
    who I believe will soon become a part of the family."
    
    "You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after a short
    silence.
    
    "It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I
    assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's."
    
    "This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in
    summer; the windows are full west."
    
    Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then
    added,
    
    "May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
    Mrs. Collins well."
    
    "Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."
    
    Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
    Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
    letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
    
    Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
    refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
    declined eating any thing; and then rising up, said to Elizabeth,
    
    "Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
    on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
    will favour me with your company."
    
    "Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and shew her ladyship about the
    different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage."
    
    Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
    attended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall,
    Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
    drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent
    looking rooms, walked on.
    
    Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
    waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
    that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for

    conversation with a woman, who was now more than usually insolent and
    disagreeable.
    
    "How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she looked in
    her face.
    
    As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
    manner:--
    
    "You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
    journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
    come."
    
    Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
    
    "Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
    for the honour of seeing you here."
    
    "Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you ought to
    know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may
    choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been
    celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such
    moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most
    alarming nature, reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your
    sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that
    _you_, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
    afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
    _know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood; though I would not injure him
    so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on
    setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
    you."
    
    "If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring
    with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming
    so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"
    
    "At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted."
    
    "Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth,
    coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
    is in existence."
    
    "If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
    industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
    report is spread abroad?"
    
    "I never heard that it was."
    
    "And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it?"
    
    "I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. _You_
    may ask questions, which _I_ shall not choose to answer."
    
    "This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
    he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"
    
    "Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."
    
    "It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his
    reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
    have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
    may have drawn him in."
    
    "If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."
    
    "Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
    language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
    and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."
    
    "But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as
    this, ever induce me to be explicit."
    
    "Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
    presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
    engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?"
    
    "Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
    make an offer to me."
    
    Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,
    
    "The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
    they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of
    _his_ mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned
    the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
    be accomplished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
    inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
    the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
    tacit engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
    propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his
    earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?"
    
    "Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no
    other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be
    kept from it, by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry
    Miss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could, in planning the
    marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by
    honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make
    another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"
    
    "Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss
    Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
    friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
    be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him.
    Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
    by any of us."
    
    "These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr.
    Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
    attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
    to repine."
    
    "Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
    for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that
    score?
    
    "Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here
    with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be
    dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims.
    I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."
    
    "_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
    but it will have no effect on _me_."
    
    "I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my
    nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal

    side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
    honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both
    sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
    every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The
    upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or
    fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you
    were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere,
    in which you have been brought up."
    
    "In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
    sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
    equal."
    
    "True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who

    are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
    condition."
    
    "Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does
    not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_."
    
    "Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"
    
    Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
    Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a
    moment's deliberation,
    
    "I am not."
    
    Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
    
    "And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"
    
    "I will make no promise of the kind."
    
    "Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
    reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I
    will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the
    assurance I require."
    
    "And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into
    anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
    your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make
    _their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to
    me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it
    on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with
    which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as
    frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my
    character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these.
    How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs,
    I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in
    mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the
    subject."
    
    "Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
    objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no
    stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous
    elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a
    patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is
    _such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of
    his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what
    are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"
    
    "You can _now_ have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered.
    "You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to
    the house."
    
    And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned
    back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
    
    "You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
    Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you,
    must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?"
    
    "Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments."
    
    "You are then resolved to have him?"
    
    "I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
    which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
    reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."
    
    "It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the
    claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in
    the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world."
    
    "Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any
    possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either,
    would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
    resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
    _were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
    concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
    the scorn."
    
    "And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I
    shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
    ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
    reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point."
    
    In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of
    the carriage, when turning hastily round, she added,
    
    "I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your
    mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased."
    
    Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
    ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
    heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
    impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady
    Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.
    
    "She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."
    
    "She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
    civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.
    She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so passing through
    Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
    nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?"
    
    Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
    acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XV.
    
    
    The discomposure of spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw
    Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many
    hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine it
    appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,
    for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
    Darcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but from what the report of
    their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;
    till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,
    and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
    expectation of one wedding, made every body eager for another, to supply
    the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her
    sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at
    Lucas lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the
    Collinses, the report she concluded had reached lady Catherine) had only
    set _that_ down, as almost certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked
    forward to as possible, at some future time.
    
    In revolving lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
    feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
    in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to
    prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
    an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar
    representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
    not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
    aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
    that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
    was certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,
    whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
    address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
    probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak
    and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
    
    If he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often
    seemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might
    settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity
    unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
    Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
    Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.
    
    "If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise, should come to
    his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to
    understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of
    his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
    have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
    at all."
    
           *       *       *       *       *
    
    The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
    been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same
    kind of supposition, which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and
    Elizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject.
    
    The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her
    father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
    
    "Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my room."
    
    She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell
    her, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
    connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might
    be from lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the
    consequent explanations.
    
    She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He
    then said,
    
    "I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
    exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
    contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_ daughters on the brink
    of matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest."
    
    The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
    conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
    and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained
    himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to
    herself; when her father continued,
    
    "You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
    as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the
    name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."
    
    "From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?"
    
    "Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
    congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
    which it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping
    Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
    on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows. "Having thus
    offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on
    this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another:
    of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
    Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
    her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate,
    may be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious
    personages in this land."
    
    "Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young
    gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
    mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
    patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
    Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate
    closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
    inclined to take immediate advantage of."
    
    "Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out."
    
    "My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine
    that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with
    a friendly eye."
    
    "_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
    surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within
    the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more
    effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
    woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in
    his life! It is admirable!"
    
    Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
    one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
    little agreeable to her.
    
    "Are you not diverted?"
    
    "Oh! yes. Pray read on."
    
    "After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
    night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
    felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
    family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
    consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
    to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and
    her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
    hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr.
    Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad
    business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
    living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally
    known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
    from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young
    couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
    encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
    very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as
    a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names
    to be mentioned in your hearing." "_That_ is his notion of christian
    forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's
    situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you
    look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I
    hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we
    live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our
    turn?"
    
    "Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so
    strange!"
    
    "Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
    it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_
    pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
    writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
    consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
    him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
    hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
    about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?"
    
    To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
    been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his
    repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
    feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she
    would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by
    what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but
    wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of
    his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVI.
    
    
    Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
    Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
    with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's
    visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to
    tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in
    momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
    their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
    habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five
    set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to
    outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,
    were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was
    too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
    desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
    
    They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon
    Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
    when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
    moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
    high, she immediately said,
    
    "Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
    relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I
    can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor
    sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
    acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
    of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."
    
    "I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
    and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
    mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs.
    Gardiner was so little to be trusted."
    
    "You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to
    me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
    not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
    in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
    you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
    sake of discovering them."
    
    "If you _will_ thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone.
    That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other
    inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
    _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought
    only of _you_."
    
    Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
    her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
    feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
    affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence
    me on this subject for ever."
    
    Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
    his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
    very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone
    so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
    her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The
    happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never
    felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
    warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
    been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
    expression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
    but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of
    feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his
    affection every moment more valuable.
    
    They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
    be thought; and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
    soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
    to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through
    London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
    substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
    every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
    peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that

    such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from
    her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
    ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
    
    "It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
    to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,
    had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
    acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."
    
    Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of
    my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
    abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
    your relations."
    
    "What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
    accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour
    to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was
    unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."
    
    "We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
    evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
    will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
    in civility."
    
    "I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
    then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
    it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
    reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a
    more gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you
    can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some
    time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."
    
    "I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
    impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
    a way."
    
    "I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
    feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
    forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
    way, that would induce you to accept me."
    
    "Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
    all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."
    
    Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you
    think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
    contents?"
    
    She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
    former prejudices had been removed.
    
    "I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
    necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
    especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the
    power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might
    justly make you hate me."
    
    "The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
    preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
    opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
    changed as that implies."
    
    "When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly
    calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a
    dreadful bitterness of spirit."
    
    "The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
    adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
    of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so
    widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant
    circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some
    of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
    pleasure."
    
    "I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_
    retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment

    arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of
    ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will
    intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a
    selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a
    child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my
    temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride
    and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)
    I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father
    particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,
    almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond
    my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to
    _wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with
    my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might
    still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not
    owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most
    advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a
    doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my
    pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."
    
    "Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"
    
    "Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
    wishing, expecting my addresses."
    
    "My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you.
    I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong.
    How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?"
    
    "Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take
    a proper direction."
    
    "I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at
    Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"
    
    "No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."
    
    "Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.
    My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I
    confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due."
    
    "My object _then_," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by every civility
    in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped
    to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you
    see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes
    introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an
    hour after I had seen you."
    
    He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
    disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to
    the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
    following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed
    before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
    there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
    comprehend.
    
    She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
    each, to be dwelt on farther.
    
    After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
    any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
    it was time to be at home.
    
    "What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which
    introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with
    their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of
    it.
    
    "I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.
    
    "Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."
    
    "That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And
    though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
    the case.
    
    "On the evening before my going to London," said he "I made a confession
    to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of
    all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,
    absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the
    slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself
    mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent
    to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
    unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."
    
    Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
    friend.
    
    "Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him
    that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?"
    
    "From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits
    which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection."
    
    "And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
    him."
    
    "It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
    prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
    his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess
    one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not
    allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months
    last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
    angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
    in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
    now."
    
    Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
    friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
    herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it
    was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,
    which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the
    conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVII.
    
    
    "My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question
    which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and
    from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in
    reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
    knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing
    else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
    
    The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The
    acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
    Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
    and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy,
    than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
    there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in
    the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one

    liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
    _dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
    
    At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
    from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
    
    "You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
    you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."
    
    "This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
    I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
    in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
    engaged."
    
    Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
    you dislike him."
    
    "You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
    did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these,
    a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
    remember it myself."
    
    Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
    seriously assured her of its truth.
    
    "Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried
    Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
    certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
    happy with him?"
    
    "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
    we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
    Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"
    
    "Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
    delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
    really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than
    marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
    to do?"
    
    "Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
    tell you all."
    
    "What do you mean?"
    
    "Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
    afraid you will be angry."
    
    "My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously.
    Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell
    me how long you have loved him?"
    
    "It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
    But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
    at Pemberley."
    
    Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
    desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of
    attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
    farther to wish.
    
    "Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I
    always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I
    must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
    husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
    Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
    tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
    of it, to another, not to you."
    
    Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to
    mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
    her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
    conceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
    and half the night spent in conversation.
    
           *       *       *       *       *
    
    "Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
    morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
    our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
    coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or
    other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
    Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
    way."
    
    Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
    was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
    epithet.
    
    As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
    shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
    and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mr. Bennet, have you no more lanes
    hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"
    
    "I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk
    to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
    never seen the view."
    
    "It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am
    sure it will be too much for Kitty. Wont it, Kitty?"
    
    Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great
    curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
    consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,
    saying,
    
    "I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
    disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
    all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to
    him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
    inconvenience."
    
    During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
    asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
    application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
    would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
    would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
    were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
    was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to
    her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the
    first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
    disapprobation.
    
           *       *       *       *       *
    
    In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw

    Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
    extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
    be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means, that _she_,
    his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
    filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched
    reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
    looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
    he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
    pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he
    wants you in the library." She was gone directly.
    
    Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
    "Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
    accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"
    
    How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
    reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
    explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
    but they were now necessary, and she assured him with some confusion, of
    her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
    
    "Or in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
    sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
    But will they make you happy?"
    
    "Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your belief of my
    indifference?"
    
    "None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
    this would be nothing if you really liked him."
    
    "I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him.
    Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
    know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
    such terms."
    
    "Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind
    of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he
    condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
    having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your
    disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
    respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
    up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
    greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
    discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
    _you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
    about."
    
    Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply;
    and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the
    object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her
    estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that
    his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many
    months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she
    did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
    
    "Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no more to
    say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
    you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy."
    
    To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
    had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
    
    "This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
    made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
    his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
    and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
    paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
    way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
    his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."
    
    He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
    Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
    at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men come
    for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."
    
    Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
    half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
    the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
    gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any
    thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
    would come in time.
    
    When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
    and made the important communication. Its effect was most
    extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and
    unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that
    she could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to
    credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the
    shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to
    fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless
    herself.
    
    "Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
    have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
    and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
    you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
    pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
    dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
    hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
    that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
    Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted."
    
    This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
    Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
    soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
    her mother followed her.
    
    "My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten
    thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
    special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
    my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
    that I may have it to-morrow."
    
    This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
    himself might be; and Elizabeth found, that though in the certain
    possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
    consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
    passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
    in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak
    to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark
    her deference for his opinion.
    
    Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
    acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
    every hour in his esteem.
    
    "I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham, perhaps,
    is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
    as Jane's."
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XVIII.

    
    
    Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
    Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could
    you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
    you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
    place?"
    
    "I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
    laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
    knew that I _had_ begun."
    
    "My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
    to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
    to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
    did you admire me for my impertinence?"
    
    "For the liveliness of your mind, I did."
    
    "You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
    The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
    attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking
    and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
    interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
    amiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
    took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
    in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
    courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;
    and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
    reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
    of _that_ when they fall in love."
    
    "Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was
    ill at Netherfield?"
    
    "Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
    by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
    to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
    to find occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as may
    be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
    to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
    called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
    you look as if you did not care about me?"
    
    "Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."
    
    "But I was embarrassed."
    
    "And so was I."
    
    "You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."
    
    "A man who had felt less, might."
    
    "How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that

    I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
    _would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
    you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
    thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too
    much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
    springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the
    subject? This will never do."
    
    "You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
    Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us, were the means of
    removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
    your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to
    wait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me
    hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."
    
    "Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
    for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
    Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
    or had you intended any more serious consequence?"
    
    "My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
    might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
    myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
    and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made."
    
    "Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine, what is to
    befall her?"
    
    "I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to
    be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done
    directly."
    
    "And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and
    admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
    I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."
    
    From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
    had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
    long letter, but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
    be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find, that her uncle and aunt
    had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
    follows:
    
         "I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have
         done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but
         to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than
         really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as you chuse; give a
         loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible
         flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me
         actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very
         soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I
         thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I
         be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful.
         We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in
         the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one
         with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I
         laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can
         spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
    
         Your's, &c."
    
    Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine, was in a different style; and
    still different from either, was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in
    reply to his last.
    
         "DEAR SIR,
    
         "I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will
         soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as
         you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has
         more to give.
    
         "Your's sincerely, &c."
    
    Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
    marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
    to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
    former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
    affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
    her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.
    
    The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was
    as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
    insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
    being loved by her sister.
    
    Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
    to Elizabeth, from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
    Collinses were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden
    removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so
    exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
    Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till

    the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
    was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
    meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
    saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her
    husband. He bore it however with admirable calmness. He could even
    listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
    the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
    meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
    shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.
    
    Mrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater tax on his
    forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in
    too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
    humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
    Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
    likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could, to shield
    him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him
    to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
    without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
    from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
    added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
    the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to
    either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
    Pemberley.
    
    
    
    
    CHAPTER XIX.
    
    
    Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
    rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she
    afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley and talked of Mrs. Darcy may be guessed.
    I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment
    of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children,
    produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,
    well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was
    lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in
    so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
    invariably silly.
    
    Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
    drew him oftener from home than any thing else could do. He delighted in
    going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
    
    Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
    a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
    _his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
    sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
    to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
    of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
    
    Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
    her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
    known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
    temper as Lydia, and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she
    became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
    ignorant, and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia's
    society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
    frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
    balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.
    
    Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
    drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
    unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
    she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
    longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
    it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
    much reluctance.
    
    As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
    the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
    Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
    and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
    thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
    to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
    from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
    if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
    effect:
    
         "MY DEAR LIZZY,
    
         "I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
         Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you
         so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will
         think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very
         much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live
         upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four
         hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it,
         if you had rather not.
    
         "Yours, &c."
    
    As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
    her answer to put an end to every intreaty and expectation of the kind.
    Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
    of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
    frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
    income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
    their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
    their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
    herself were sure of being applied to, for some little assistance
    towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
    restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
    extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
    situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
    her soon sunk into indifference; her's lasted a little longer; and in
    spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
    reputation which her marriage had given her.
    
    Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
    Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia was
    occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
    in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
    staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
    proceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone.
    
    Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
    thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
    dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
    attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
    to Elizabeth.
    
    Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
    was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
    other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
    in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an
    astonishment bordering on alarm, at her lively, sportive, manner of
    talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
    which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
    pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in
    her way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a
    woman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not
    always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
    
    Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
    and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in
    her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
    language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
    all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
    he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
    and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her
    resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
    to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on
    them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
    received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
    visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
    
    With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy,
    as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
    sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
    her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
    
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.  Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of
their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so
respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
surrounding acquaintance.  The late owner of this estate was a single
man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.  But her
death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received
into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal
inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to
bequeath it.  In the society of his nephew and niece, and their
children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent.  His
attachment to them all increased.  The constant attention of Mr. and
Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid
comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the
children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
lady, three daughters.  The son, a steady respectable young man, was
amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.  By his own
marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth.  To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not
so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that
property, could be but small.  Their mother had nothing, and their
father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her
child, and he had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other
will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.  He was neither so
unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but
he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
bequest.  Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife
and daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his
son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as
to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear
to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or
by any sale of its valuable woods.  The whole was tied up for the
benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and
mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by
such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three
years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh
all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received
from his niece and her daughters.  He meant not to be unkind, however,
and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a
thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was
cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years,
and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce
of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement.  But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
his only one twelvemonth.  He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for
his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.
Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness
could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at
such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make
them comfortable.  His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,
and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might
prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well
respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of
his ordinary duties.  Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have
been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and
very fond of his wife.  But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself;--more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to
increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece.  He then really thought himself equal to it.  The
prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,
besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his
heart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- "Yes, he would give
them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
be enough to make them completely easy.  Three thousand pounds! he
could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience."-- He
thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did
not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants.  No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;--but in HER mind there was
a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of
the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of
immovable disgust.  Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with
any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the
present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of
other people she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the
arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had
not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the
propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children
determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach
with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed
a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified
her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and
enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all,
that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led
to imprudence.  She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was
affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern
them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her
joys, could have no moderation.  She was generous, amiable,
interesting: she was everything but prudent.  The resemblance between
her and her mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but
by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.  They encouraged each
other now in the violence of their affliction.  The agony of grief
which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought
for, was created again and again.  They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that
could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in
future.  Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself.  She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with
proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but
as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without
having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal
her sisters at a more advanced period of life.



CHAPTER 2


Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her
mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by
her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child.  He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no
plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she
could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his
invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind.  In seasons of cheerfulness,
no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
itself.  But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters.  To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree.  She begged him to think again on the subject.  How
could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,
of so large a sum?  And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,
who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no
relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.  It
was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist
between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he
to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his
money to his half sisters?

"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I
should assist his widow and daughters."

"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
was light-headed at the time.  Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half
your fortune from your own child."

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do.  Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.  He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them.  But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.  Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."

"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need
not be three thousand pounds.  Consider," she added, "that when the
money is once parted with, it never can return.  Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever.  If, indeed, it could be restored
to our poor little boy--"

"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make
great difference.  The time may come when Harry will regret that so
large a sum was parted with.  If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition."

"To be sure it would."

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!"

"Oh! beyond anything great!  What brother on earth would do half so
much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters!  And as it is--only
half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!"

"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied.  "One had rather,
on such occasions, do too much than too little.  No one, at least, can
think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly
expect more."

"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are
not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
afford to do."

"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
a-piece.  As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable
fortune for any young woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all.  They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them.  If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten
thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.

"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
pounds at once.  But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years
we shall be completely taken in."

"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase."

"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
and hardly forty.  An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.  You are not
aware of what you are doing.  I have known a great deal of the trouble
of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to
old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how
disagreeable she found it.  Twice every year these annuities were to be
paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then
one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing.  My mother was quite sick of it.  Her income was not her
own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.  It
has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world."

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have
those kind of yearly drains on one's income.  One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is NOT one's own.  To be tied down to the regular
payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
takes away one's independence."

"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.  They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all.  If I were you, whatever I did should be done at
my own discretion entirely.  I would not bind myself to allow them any
thing yearly.  It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will
be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they
would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the
year.  It will certainly be much the best way.  A present of fifty
pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for
money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."

"To be sure it will.  Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within
myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at
all.  The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might
be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a
comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,
and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
are in season.  I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed,
it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.  Do but consider,
my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law
and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,
besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which
brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will
pay their mother for their board out of it.  Altogether, they will have
five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want
for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will
be nothing at all.  They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly
any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of
any kind!  Only conceive how comfortable they will be!  Five hundred a
year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as
to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.  They will
be much more able to give YOU something."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than
what you say.  I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil
my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you
have described.  When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.  Some little
present of furniture too may be acceptable then."

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood.  "But, however, ONE thing
must be considered.  When your father and mother moved to Norland,
though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and
linen was saved, and is now left to your mother.  Her house will
therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly.  A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant
addition to our own stock here."

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what
belongs to this house.  A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for
any place THEY can ever afford to live in.  But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of THEM.  And I must say this: that you owe no
particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very
well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the
world to THEM."

This argument was irresistible.  It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as
his own wife pointed out.



CHAPTER 3


Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any
disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased
to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when
her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other
exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her
inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for
to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible.  But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and
ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier
judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which
her mother would have approved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on
the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections.  She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in
affluence.  For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own
heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his
merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.  His attentive
behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare
was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the
liberality of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;
and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal
affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it
impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular
circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to
the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young
man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's
establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of
his time there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of
interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died
very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,
for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the
will of his mother.  But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either
consideration.  It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,
that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune
should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by
every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any
peculiar graces of person or address.  He was not handsome, and his
manners required intimacy to make them pleasing.  He was too diffident
to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,
his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid
improvement.  But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to
answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him
distinguished--as--they hardly knew what.  They wanted him to make a
fine figure in the world in some manner or other.  His mother wished to
interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to
see him connected with some of the great men of the day.  Mrs. John
Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her
ambition to see him driving a barouche.  But Edward had no turn for
great men or barouches.  All his wishes centered in domestic comfort
and the quiet of private life.  Fortunately he had a younger brother
who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.  She saw
only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.  He
did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a
reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference
between him and his sister.  It was a contrast which recommended him
most forcibly to her mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable.  I love him already."

"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him."

"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile.  "I feel no sentiment of
approbation inferior to love."

"You may esteem him."

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.  Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve.  She speedily
comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no
longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper
affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life.  We shall miss her; but SHE will be
happy."

"Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?"

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation.  We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives.  You will
gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.  I have the highest
opinion in the world of Edward's heart.  But you look grave, Marianne;
do you disapprove your sister's choice?"

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.  But yet--he is not
the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not
striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man
who could seriously attach my sister.  His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence.  And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste.  Music seems
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their
worth.  It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while
she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.  He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur.  To satisfy me, those characters must be
united.  I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own.  He must enter into all my feelings; the
same books, the same music must charm us both.  Oh! mama, how
spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely.  Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.  I could hardly keep my
seat.  To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such
dreadful indifference!"

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper."

"Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow
for difference of taste.  Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it, and be happy with him.  But it would have broke MY
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love.  I require so much!  He
must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must
ornament his goodness with every possible charm."

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen.  It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness.  Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother?  In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from hers!"



CHAPTER 4


"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no
taste for drawing."

"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it.  Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he
would have drawn very well.  He distrusts his own judgment in such
matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any
picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which
in general direct him perfectly right."

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,
which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.  Yet, though
smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that
blind partiality to Edward which produced it.

"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste.  Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."

Marianne hardly knew what to say.  She would not wound the feelings of
her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
impossible.  At length she replied:

"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits.  I have not had so many
opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his
inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in
the world of his goodness and sense.  I think him every thing that is
worthy and amiable."

"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that.  I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I
think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
unreserved conversation.  The excellence of his understanding and his
principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent.  You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.  He and I
have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.  I
have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I
venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books
exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
correct, and his taste delicate and pure.  His abilities in every
respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person
can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which
are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
perceived.  At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
handsome; or at least, almost so.  What say you, Marianne?"

"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now.  When
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart."

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him.  She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion.  She believed the regard to be mutual; but
she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of
their attachment agreeable to her.  She knew that what Marianne and her
mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,
to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.  She tried to explain
the real state of the case to her sister.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of
him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation--

"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh!  worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment."

Elinor could not help laughing.  "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings.  Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;
believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the
hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe.  I am by no means assured
of his regard for me.  There are moments when the extent of it seems
doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by
believing or calling it more than it is.  In my heart I feel
little--scarcely any doubt of his preference.  But there are other
points to be considered besides his inclination.  He is very far from
being independent.  What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great
fortune or high rank."

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
and herself had outstripped the truth.

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she.  "Yet it certainly
soon will happen.  But two advantages will proceed from this delay.  I
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be
so indispensably necessary to your future felicity.  Oh! if he should
be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would be!"

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister.  She could not
consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne
had believed it.  There was, at times, a want of spirits about him
which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as
unpromising.  A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not
give him more than inquietude.  It would not be likely to produce that
dejection of mind which frequently attended him.  A more reasonable
cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection.  She knew that his mother neither behaved
to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him
any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly
attending to her views for his aggrandizement.  With such a knowledge
as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject.  She
was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which
her mother and sister still considered as certain.  Nay, the longer
they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;
and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more
than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived
by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was
still more common,) to make her uncivil.  She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to
her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the
danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that
Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to
be calm.  She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and
instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.  It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.  The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation.  He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might
think necessary, if the situation pleased her.  He earnestly pressed
her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with
her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses
were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable
to her.  He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of
his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of
giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was
suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer
connections.  She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.  Her
resolution was formed as she read.  The situation of Barton, in a
county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours
before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first
recommendation.  To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an
evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of
the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for
ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or
visit it while such a woman was its mistress.  She instantly wrote Sir
John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance
of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her
daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her
answer were sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance.  On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire.  The house, too, as
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm
to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence.



CHAPTER 5


No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself
in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she
was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till
every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with
surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped
that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great
satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward
turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to
what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles
northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my
friends in it.  A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
find none in accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood
to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
affection.  Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had
made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was
unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that
point to which it principally tended.  To separate Edward and Elinor
was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs.
John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally
she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry
he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to
prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.  He
really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very
exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his
father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture
was all sent around by water.  It chiefly consisted of household linen,
plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.
Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not
help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so
trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome
article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,
and she might have immediate possession.  No difficulty arose on either
side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she
set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the
performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The
horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his
death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage,
she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest
daughter.  For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor
prevailed.  HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to
three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from
amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,
to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady
Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going
directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she
relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to
feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by
the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her
removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed
under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.  Now was the
time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular
propriety be fulfilled.  Since he had neglected to do it on first
coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as
the most suitable period for its accomplishment.  But Mrs. Dashwood
began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced,
from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended
no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.  He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of
the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in
the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to
stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving
money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future
abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their
journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
much beloved.  "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when
shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh!
happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this
spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye
well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay
because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we
can observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious
of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any
change in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to
enjoy you?"



CHAPTER 6


The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a
disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.  But as they
drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a
country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view
of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.  It was a
pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.  After winding
along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.  A small
green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket
gate admitted them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;
but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the
roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were
the walls covered with honeysuckles.  A narrow passage led directly
through the house into the garden behind.  On each side of the entrance
was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the
offices and the stairs.  Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest
of the house.  It had not been built many years and was in good repair.
In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears
which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon
dried away.  They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their
arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first
seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an
impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending
it to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good.  High hills rose immediately
behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open
downs, the others cultivated and woody.  The village of Barton was
chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the
cottage windows.  The prospect in front was more extensive; it
commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.
The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that
direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out
again between two of the steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the
whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many
additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a
delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply
all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.  "As for the
house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family,
but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it
is too late in the year for improvements.  Perhaps in the spring, if I
have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about
building.  These parlors are both too small for such parties of our
friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts
of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the
other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this,
with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber
and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage.  I could
wish the stairs were handsome.  But one must not expect every thing;
though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.  I
shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and
we will plan our improvements accordingly."

In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the
savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved
in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it
was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,
and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to
form themselves a home.  Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and
properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls
of their sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast
the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome
them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own
house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.  Sir
John Middleton was a good looking man about forty.  He had formerly
visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to
remember him.  His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his
manners were as friendly as the style of his letter.  Their arrival
seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an
object of real solicitude to him.  He said much of his earnest desire
of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed
them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were
better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a
point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence.
His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he
left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from
the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of
game.  He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and
from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of
sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her
intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced
to them the next day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of
their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance
was favourable to their wishes.  Lady Middleton was not more than six
or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and
striking, and her address graceful.  Her manners had all the elegance
which her husband's wanted.  But they would have been improved by some
share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to
detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though
perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for
herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and
Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their
eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means
there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of
extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,
and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung
about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her
ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could
make noise enough at home.  On every formal visit a child ought to be
of the party, by way of provision for discourse.  In the present case
it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his
father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of
course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the
opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the
rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without
securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.



CHAPTER 7


Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage.  The ladies had
passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from
their view at home by the projection of a hill.  The house was large
and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality
and elegance.  The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter
for that of his lady.  They were scarcely ever without some friends
staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every
kind than any other family in the neighbourhood.  It was necessary to
the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward
behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
such as society produced, within a very narrow compass.  Sir John was a
sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.  He hunted and shot, and she
humoured her children; and these were their only resources.  Lady
Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the
year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence
only half the time.  Continual engagements at home and abroad, however,
supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the
good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his
wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties.  But Sir John's
satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting
about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier
they were the better was he pleased.  He was a blessing to all the
juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter
his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not
suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy
to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants
he had now procured for his cottage at Barton.  The Miss Dashwoods were
young, pretty, and unaffected.  It was enough to secure his good
opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to
make her mind as captivating as her person.  The friendliness of his
disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation
might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.  In
showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction
of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his
cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,
though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is
not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a
residence within his own manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by
Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;
and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young
ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day
before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them.  They
would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a
particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very
young nor very gay.  He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of
the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.  He
had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some
addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full
of engagements.  Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton
within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman,
he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might
imagine.  The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly
satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for
no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry,
fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and
rather vulgar.  She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex,
and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.  Marianne was
vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor
to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave
Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery
as Mrs. Jennings's.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by
resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be
his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother.  He was
silent and grave.  His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite
of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though
his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his
address was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as
companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton
was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of
Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his
mother-in-law was interesting.  Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to
enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,
who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of
discourse except what related to themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play.  The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to
be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went
through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into
the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in
the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded.  Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted.  Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted
from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song
which Marianne had just finished.  Colonel Brandon alone, of all the
party, heard her without being in raptures.  He paid her only the
compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the
occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless
want of taste.  His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was
estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the
others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and
thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
exquisite power of enjoyment.  She was perfectly disposed to make every
allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity
required.



CHAPTER 8


Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.  She had only two
daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and
she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world.  In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as
far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.  She was
remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the
advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by
insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of
discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to
pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne
Dashwood.  She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening
of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she
sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining
at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
It must be so.  She was perfectly convinced of it.  It would be an
excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.  Mrs. Jennings
had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her
connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she
was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for
it supplied her with endless jokes against them both.  At the park she
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.  To the former
her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself,
perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first
incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew
whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,
for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's
advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of
her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of
wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

"But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.  Colonel Brandon
is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY
father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have
long outlived every sensation of the kind.  It is too ridiculous!  When
is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not
protect him?"

"Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?  I can
easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of
his limbs!"

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?  and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?"

"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must
be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle
that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."

"Mama, you are not doing me justice.  I know very well that Colonel
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature.  He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have
any thing to do with matrimony together.  But if there should by any
chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should
not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his
marrying HER."

"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment,
"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be
uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring
herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife.  In his marrying such a woman
therefore there would be nothing unsuitable.  It would be a compact of
convenience, and the world would be satisfied.  In my eyes it would be
no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.  To me it would seem
only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the
expense of the other."

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that
a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.
But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the
constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to
complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in
one of his shoulders."

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a
flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and
the feeble."

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him
half so much.  Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mama," said
Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot
conceal from you.  I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.  We have now
been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.  Nothing but
real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.  What else
can detain him at Norland?"

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood.  "I had
none.  On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the
subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of
pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his
coming to Barton.  Does Elinor expect him already?"

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed
that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the
room would be wanted for some time."

"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it!  But the whole of
their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how
composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the
last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no
distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an
affectionate brother to both.  Twice did I leave them purposely
together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most
unaccountably follow me out of the room.  And Elinor, in quitting
Norland and Edward, cried not as I did.  Even now her self-command is
invariable.  When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to
avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"



CHAPTER 9


The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to
themselves.  The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding
them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had
given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater
enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their
father.  Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first
fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at
home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at
their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the
wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to
visit any family beyond the distance of a walk.  There were but few who
could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding
valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly
described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an
ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little
of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be
better acquainted with it.  But they learnt, on enquiry, that its
possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks.  The high
downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one
memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine
of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the
settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned.  The weather was
not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their
book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be
lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off
from their hills; and the two girls set off together.

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at
every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the
animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears
which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such
delightful sensations.

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to
this?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting
it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly
the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in
their face.-- Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though
unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own
house.  One consolation however remained for them, to which the
exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of
running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which
led immediately to their garden gate.

They set off.  Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step
brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop
herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the
bottom in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was
passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her
accident happened.  He put down his gun and ran to her assistance.  She
had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in
her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand.  The gentleman offered
his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her
situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther
delay, and carried her down the hill.  Then passing through the garden,
the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly
into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his
hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while
the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret
admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for
his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so
graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received
additional charms from his voice and expression.  Had he been even old,
ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would
have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the
influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the
action which came home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which
always attended her, invited him to be seated.  But this he declined,
as he was dirty and wet.  Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she
was obliged.  His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present
home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the
honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood.  The honour
was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more
interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the
theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised
against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior
attractions.-- Marianne herself had seen less of his Mama the
rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting
her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their
entering the house.  But she had seen enough of him to join in all the
admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her
praise.  His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn
for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the
house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of
thought which particularly recommended the action to her.  Every
circumstance belonging to him was interesting.  His name was good, his
residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that
of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.  Her
imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a
sprained ankle was disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather
that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident
being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any
gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is HE in the country? That is good
news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday."

"You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him! to be sure I do.  Why, he is down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you.  A very decent
shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly.
"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his
pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

Sir John was rather puzzled.

"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all THAT.
But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest
little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw.  Was she out with him
today?"

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind.

"But who is he?" said Elinor.  "Where does he come from?  Has he a
house at Allenham?"

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he
told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the
country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady
at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was
to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can
tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in
Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my
younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills.  Miss
Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself.  Brandon will
be jealous, if she does not take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY
daughters towards what you call CATCHING him.  It is not an employment
to which they have been brought up.  Men are very safe with us, let
them be ever so rich.  I am glad to find, however, from what you say,
that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not
be ineligible."

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated
Sir John.  "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he
danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."

"Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with
elegance, with spirit?"

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.  Whatever
be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
leave him no sense of fatigue."

"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be.
You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon."

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I
particularly dislike.  I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit
is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'
are the most odious of all.  Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and
if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago
destroyed all its ingenuity."

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as
heartily as if he did, and then replied,

"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.
Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth
setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling
about and spraining of ankles."



CHAPTER 10


Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make
his personal enquiries.  He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more
than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and
her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the
visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,
and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced
him.  Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview
to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a
remarkably pretty figure.  Marianne was still handsomer.  Her form,
though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of
height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the
common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less
violently outraged than usually happens.  Her skin was very brown, but,
from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her
features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her
eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,
which could hardily be seen without delight.  From Willoughby their
expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the
remembrance of his assistance created.  But when this passed away, when
her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect
good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and
above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was
passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured
the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her
to talk.  She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion.  They speedily
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related
to either.  Encouraged by this to a further examination of his
opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her
favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous
a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been
insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence
of such works, however disregarded before.  Their taste was strikingly
alike.  The same books, the same passages were idolized by each--or if
any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than
till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be
displayed.  He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her
enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with
the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for ONE
morning I think you have done pretty well.  You have already
ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of
importance.  You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are
certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have
received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.
But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such
extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse?  You will soon
have exhausted each favourite topic.  Another meeting will suffice to
explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and
then you can have nothing farther to ask."--

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so
scanty?  But I see what you mean.  I have been too much at my ease, too
happy, too frank.  I have erred against every common-place notion of
decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been
reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful--had I talked only of the
weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this
reproach would have been spared."

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor--she
was only in jest.  I should scold her myself, if she were capable of
wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new
friend."-- Marianne was softened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their
acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer.  He
came to them every day.  To enquire after Marianne was at first his
excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave
greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased
to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery.  She was confined for
some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less
irksome.  Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick
imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners.  He was
exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined
not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was
now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which
recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.  They read,
they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;
and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had
unfortunately wanted.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and
Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he
strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too
much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or
circumstances.  In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided
attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the
forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor
could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in
its support.

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized
her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her
ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.  Willoughby was
all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every
brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour
declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities
were strong.

Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the
end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate
herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been
discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when
it ceased to be noticed by them.  Their attention and wit were drawn
off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had
incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings
began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.
Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments
which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now
actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance
of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.
Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no
hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon.  She saw it with concern;
for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a
very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him
successful, she heartily wished him indifferent.  She liked him--in
spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of
interest.  His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve
appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any
natural gloominess of temper.  Sir John had dropped hints of past
injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being
an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by
Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither
lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they
were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and
nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers
to talk to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in
both of you.  He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and
I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

"That he is patronised by YOU," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in
his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in
itself.  Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a
woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the
indifference of any body else?"

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will
make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother.  If their
praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always
have attractions for me.  Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty
and forty.  He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has
read, and has a thinking mind.  I have found him capable of giving me
much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my
inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that
in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."

"He WOULD have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries,
but they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed."

"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the
existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."

"I may venture to say that HIS observations have stretched much further
than your candour.  But why should you dislike him?"

"I do not dislike him.  I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;
who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to
employ, and two new coats every year."

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor
spirit.  That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
ardour, and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and
insipid.  I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,
well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable
heart."

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly.  You
are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my
will.  But it will not do.  You shall find me as stubborn as you can be
artful.  I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel
Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has
found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him
to buy my brown mare.  If it will be any satisfaction to you, however,
to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects
irreproachable, I am ready to confess it.  And in return for an
acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the
privilege of disliking him as much as ever."



CHAPTER 11


Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came
into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their
time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such
frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little
leisure for serious employment.  Yet such was the case.  When Marianne
was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir
John had been previously forming, were put into execution.  The private
balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and
accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.  In every
meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished
that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to
suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.  But Marianne
abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;
and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves
illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a
disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an
illustration of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else.  Every thing he
did, was right.  Every thing he said, was clever.  If their evenings at
the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest
of the party to get her a good hand.  If dancing formed the amusement
of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to
separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and
scarcely spoke a word to any body else.  Such conduct made them of
course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left
her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.  To her
it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and
ardent mind.

This was the season of happiness to Marianne.  Her heart was devoted to
Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with
her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it
possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great.  Her heart was not so much at
ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.  They afforded
her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,
nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than
ever.  Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the
conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker,
and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a
large share of her discourse.  She had already repeated her own history
to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to
her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their
acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and
what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.  Lady Middleton
was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.  Elinor
needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere
calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.  Towards her
husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was
therefore neither to be looked for nor desired.  She had nothing to say
one day that she had not said the day before.  Her insipidity was
invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she
did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every
thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her,
she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might
have experienced in sitting at home;--and so little did her presence
add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation,
that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her
solicitude about her troublesome boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find
a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite
the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
Willoughby was out of the question.  Her admiration and regard, even
her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his
attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might
have been more generally pleasing.  Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for
himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in
conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from
him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing.  His eyes were fixed on
Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint
smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second
attachments."

"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."

"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist."

"I believe she does.  But how she contrives it without reflecting on
the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.
A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of
common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define
and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."

"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is
something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is
sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor.  "There are
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the
charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her
systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at
nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward
to as her greatest possible advantage."

After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a
second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body?  Are those
who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the
inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be
equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second
attachment's being pardonable."

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements
of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they
succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!  I
speak from experience.  I once knew a lady who in temper and mind
greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who
from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances"--
Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,
and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not
otherwise have entered Elinor's head.  The lady would probably have
passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what
concerned her ought not to escape his lips.  As it was, it required but
a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard.  Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne,
in her place, would not have done so little.  The whole story would
have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing
established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.



CHAPTER 12


As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the
latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of
all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,
surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.  Marianne told her,
with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one
that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was
exactly calculated to carry a woman.  Without considering that it was
not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter
her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the
servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable
to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and
told her sister of it in raptures.

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day.  You shall
share its use with me.  Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the
delight of a gallop on some of these downs."

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them.  As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.  Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her.  This was too much.

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby.  I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama.  It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;--it is disposition alone.  Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others.  I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby.  Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.  She knew her
sister's temper.  Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion.  But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present.  The reasons for this alteration were at the same time
related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side
impossible.  His concern however was very apparent; and after
expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But,
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.  I
shall keep it only till you can claim it.  When you leave Barton to
form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them.  From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or
any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover
it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light.  Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour
with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations,
which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest
sister, when they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne.  I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle."

"But indeed this is quite another thing.  I am sure they will be
married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."

"Take care, Margaret.  It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
HIS."

"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off.  Last night after tea, when you and mama went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could
be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all
tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of
white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister.  When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the
park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful.  She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret,

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you
who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.
Jennings.  "What is the gentleman's name?"

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure.  He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

"No, THAT he is not.  He is of no profession at all."

"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is
an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
a man once, and his name begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother.  The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them.  Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.  But not so
easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a
very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders
on that head.  The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and
Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed
to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at
least, twice every summer for the last ten years.  They contained a
noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the
morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages
only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a
complete party of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
last fortnight;--and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.



CHAPTER 13


Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
what Elinor had expected.  She was prepared to be wet through,
fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for
they did not go at all.

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast.  The morning was rather favourable, though it had
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
and the sun frequently appeared.  They were all in high spirits and
good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the
greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.  Among the
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton.  "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon?  I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse."

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business?  Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear
the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel.  And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
requires my immediate attendance in town."

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings.  "What can you have to do in town at
this time of year?"

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so
agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence
is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

What a blow upon them all was this!

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said
Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so
near it.  You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled.  But it is not in my power to
delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour."--

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.  Brandon is one of
them.  He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
trick for getting out of it.  I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
of his own writing."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything.  But,
however, I hope you will think better of it.  Consider, here are the
two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
unavoidable.

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return."

"You are very obliging.  But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John.  "If he is not here
by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns.  I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.

"No. Only to Honiton.  I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey.  But you
had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what
you are going about."

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.

"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before.  She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a
very near relation.  We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.  I dare say the Colonel
will leave her all his fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country.  The
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never
looked happier than when she got into it.  He drove through the park
very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them
was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest.  They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said
only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others
went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long.  Some more of the
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly
twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long
seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to
Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in
spite of all your tricks.  I know where you spent the morning."

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"--

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne.  It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when
I was there six years ago."

Marianne turned away in great confusion.  Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely
that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house
while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest
acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true.  Marianne was quite angry
with her for doubting it.

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
did not see the house?  Is not it what you have often wished to do
yourself?"

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew
that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to
have any other companion.  I never spent a pleasanter morning in my
life."

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been
sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
your own conduct?"

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.  I
am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs.
Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house.  They will one day be Mr.
Willoughby's, and--"

"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure
you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice
comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would
be delightful.  It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.  On
one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a
beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church
and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so
often admired.  I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be
more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a
couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England."

Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,
she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.



CHAPTER 14


The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his
steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the
wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great
wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all
the comings and goings of all their acquaintance.  She wondered, with
little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must
be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could
have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape
them all.

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.
"I could see it in his face.  Poor man!  I am afraid his circumstances
may be bad.  The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two
thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.  I do
think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can
it be?  I wonder whether it is so.  I would give anything to know the
truth of it.  Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare
say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.  May be
she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a
notion she is always rather sickly.  I would lay any wager it is about
Miss Williams.  It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his
circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must
have cleared the estate by this time.  I wonder what it can be!  May be
his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.  His setting
off in such a hurry seems very like it.  Well, I wish him out of all
his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.  Her opinion varying with every
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel
Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,
which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the
circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or
variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.  It was
engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on
the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them
all.  As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange
and more incompatible with the disposition of both.  Why they should
not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant
behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not
imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in
their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason
to believe him rich.  His estate had been rated by Sir John at about
six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that
income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of
his poverty.  But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them
relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all,
she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their
general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind
of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her
making any inquiry of Marianne.

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby's behaviour.  To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the
family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.  The
cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more
of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general
engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him
out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest
of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his
favourite pointer at her feet.

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly
opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as
perfect with him.

"What!" he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage!  No. THAT I will
never consent to.  Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch
to its size, if my feelings are regarded."

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried.  "May she always be poor, if she
can employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby.  But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one
whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.  Depend upon it
that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in
the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it
in a manner so painful to you.  But are you really so attached to this
place as to see no defect in it?"

"I am," said he.  "To me it is faultless.  Nay, more, I consider it as
the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I
rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in
the exact plan of this cottage."

"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said
Elinor.

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing
belonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it,
should the least variation be perceptible.  Then, and then only, under
such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at
Barton."

"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage
of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your
own house as faultless as you now do this."

"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of
my affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited!  I never passed within
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one
should live in it.  How little did I then think that the very first
news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,
would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate
satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of
prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account
for.  Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered
voice.  Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house
you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood?  You would rob it of its simplicity by
imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance
first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by
us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,
and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has
hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort
than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world
could possibly afford."

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied.  "Your promise makes me
easy.  Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.  Tell me
that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever
find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will
always consider me with the kindness which has made everything
belonging to you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was
leaving them.  "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.



CHAPTER 15


Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and
two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from
being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her
mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the
night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly
satisfied with her remaining at home.

On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and
servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that
her conjecture had been just.  So far it was all as she had foreseen;
but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her
to expect.  They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had
just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against
the mantel-piece with his back towards them.  He turned round on their
coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the
emotion which over-powered Marianne.

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered--"is she ill?"

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced
smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I
am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

"Disappointment?"

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you.  Mrs. Smith has
this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
cousin, by sending me on business to London.  I have just received my
dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of
exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."

"To London!--and are you going this morning?"

"Almost this moment."

"This is very unfortunate.  But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope."

He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of
returning into Devonshire immediately.  My visits to Mrs. Smith are
never repeated within the twelvemonth."

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend?  Is Allenham the only house in the
neighbourhood to which you will be welcome?  For shame, Willoughby, can
you wait for an invitation here?"

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only
replied, "You are too good."

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise.  Elinor felt equal
amazement.  For a few moments every one was silent.  Mrs. Dashwood
first spoke.

"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you
will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here
immediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing
to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question
your judgment than to doubt your inclination."

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of
such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself"--

He stopt.  Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another
pause succeeded.  This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner.  I will not torment
myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is
impossible for me now to enjoy."

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room.  They saw him
step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the
parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this
sudden departure occasioned.

Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.  She thought of
what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.  Willoughby's behaviour
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of
cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's
invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself,
greatly disturbed her.  One moment she feared that no serious design
had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate
quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in
which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could
most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's
love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's
affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest
compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability
not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a
duty.

In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were
red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,
as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"

"It is all very strange.  So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work
of a moment.  And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so
affectionate?  And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without
intending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have
happened.  He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.  YOU must
have seen the difference as well as I.  What can it be?  Can they have
quarrelled?  Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept
your invitation here?"--

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
THAT.  He had not the power of accepting it.  I have thought it all
over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at
first seemed strange to me as well as to you."

"Can you, indeed!"

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but
you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU,
I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it.  I am
persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves
of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that
account is eager to get him away;--and that the business which she
sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.
This is what I believe to have happened.  He is, moreover, aware that
she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present
confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself
obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and
absent himself from Devonshire for a while.  You will tell me, I know,
that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil,
unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory at this.  And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!  You had rather
take evil upon credit than good.  You had rather look out for misery
for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the
latter.  You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave
of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn.  And is
no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by
recent disappointment?  Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely
because they are not certainties?  Is nothing due to the man whom we
have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill
of?  To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though
unavoidably secret for a while?  And, after all, what is it you suspect
him of?"

"I can hardly tell myself.  But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed
in him.  There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of
the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be
candid in my judgment of every body.  Willoughby may undoubtedly have
very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at
once.  Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at
its being practiced by him."

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the
deviation is necessary.  But you really do admit the justice of what I
have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted."

"Not entirely.  It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith--and if that is the case, it must be
highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at
present.  But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their
engagement I do."

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.  Has
not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future
wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
Have we not perfectly understood each other?  Has not my consent been
daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate
respect?  My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?  How
could such a thought occur to you?  How is it to be supposed that
Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave
her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his
affection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except ONE is in
favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both
on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"How strange this is!  You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
nature of the terms on which they are together.  Has he been acting a
part in his behaviour to your sister all this time?  Do you suppose him
really indifferent to her?"

"No, I cannot think that.  He must and does love her I am sure."

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
matter as certain.  I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are
fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away.  If we
find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"A mighty concession indeed!  If you were to see them at the altar, you
would suppose they were going to be married.  Ungracious girl!  But I
require no such proof.  Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly
open and unreserved.  You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.  It must
be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect.  But why?  Is he not a man of
honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor.  "I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me.  It has been involuntary, and I will
not encourage it.  I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not
return your kindness with any cordiality.  But all this may be
explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.  He
had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by
our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed.  In such a
case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more
to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general
character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct
on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself,
or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

"You speak very properly.  Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
suspected.  Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in
this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,
it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging
everything to me at once: but this is not the case.  It is an
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage
must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it
can be observed, may now be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to
acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word.  Her eyes
were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then
restrained with difficulty.  She avoided the looks of them all, could
neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently
pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude
was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening.  She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command
over herself.  The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they
spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
connected with him.



CHAPTER 16


Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent
whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
often totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in
music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
present was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been
used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she
is not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be
the natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
the revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but
one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed,

"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
before we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes
again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  "No--nor many weeks."

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
wandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
companion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
found when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
gaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of
the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and
more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first
coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
it was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they
could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!"--and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has.  His air, his
coat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty
yards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her
sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On
Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,
seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne
saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered
with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly
seen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
in showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,
the air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They
are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But
SOMETIMES they are."--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments;--but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley.  Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever
see their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant
people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.



CHAPTER 17


Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter."

"I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."

"You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate."

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne.  "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do with
it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.  YOUR
competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
external comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than
mine.  Come, what is your competence?"

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT."

Elinor laughed.  "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said Marianne.
"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.

"Hunters!" repeated Edward--"but why must you have hunters?  Every body
does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth."

"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be!  I wonder what I
should do with it!"

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and
your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said
Edward, "in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very
saucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
disputes."

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
former times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
in improving my collection of music and books."

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."

"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
at all altered."

"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me.  You are not
very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh.  "But gaiety never
was a part of MY character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly
call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
is not often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility," said Edward to Elinor.  "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I
am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy."

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."

Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring.  "Reserved!--how, in
what manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"

Edward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.



CHAPTER 18


Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.  His
visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own
enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.  It was evident that he was
unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished
her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of
inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted
one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to
promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to
themselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour
door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
come out.

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are
not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

                    ***

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the
valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation
than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had
exceedingly pleased him.  This was a subject which ensured Marianne's
attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of
these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had
particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You
must not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the
picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste
if we come to particulars.  I shall call hills steep, which ought to be
bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and
rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.  You must be
satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.  I call it a
very fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine
timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows
and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.  It exactly
answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with
utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire
it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey
moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.  I know nothing of
the picturesque."

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you
boast of it?"

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation,
Edward here falls into another.  Because he believes many people
pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really
feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater
indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he
possesses.  He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own."

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery
is become a mere jargon.  Every body pretends to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what
picturesque beauty was.  I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I
have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to
describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight in
a fine prospect which you profess to feel.  But, in return, your sister
must allow me to feel no more than I profess.  I like a fine prospect,
but not on picturesque principles.  I do not like crooked, twisted,
blasted trees.  I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and
flourishing.  I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.  I am not fond
of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.  I have more pleasure in a
snug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages
please me better than the finest banditti in the world."

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister.  Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,
his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait
of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried.  "Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should
have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt--but when she saw
how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a
momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The
setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair
was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;
the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne
considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must
have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.
She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and
affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of
something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled.  He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little
offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the
cottage, came to take a survey of the guest.  With the assistance of
his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name
of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery
against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their
acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately
sprung.  But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant
looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,
extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor,
towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished
to engage them for both.

"You MUST drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite
alone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.  "And who knows but you may raise
a dance," said she.  "And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne."

"A dance!" cried Marianne.  "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What!
you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
nameless is gone!"

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among
us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.  "And who
is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply.  Marianne's countenance was more
communicative.  Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning
of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him
before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round
her, and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing.  Shall I tell you
my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,

"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure
you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness
and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her
acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing
between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
mention it.



CHAPTER 19


Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.
Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on
self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment
among his friends was at the height.  His spirits, during the last two
or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved--he
grew more and more partial to the house and environs--never spoke of
going away without a sigh--declared his time to be wholly
disengaged--even doubted to what place he should go when he left
them--but still, go he must.  Never had any week passed so quickly--he
could hardly believe it to be gone.  He said so repeatedly; other
things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the
lie to his actions.  He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being
in town; but either to Norland or London, he must go.  He valued their
kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with
them.  Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their
wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose
character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse
for every thing strange on the part of her son.  Disappointed, however,
and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain
behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard
his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,
which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for
Willoughby's service, by her mother.  His want of spirits, of openness,
and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of
independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition
and designs.  The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose
in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same
inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother.  The old
well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child,
was the cause of all.  She would have been glad to know when these
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,--when Mrs.
Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy.  But
from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal
of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every
mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and
above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round
his finger.

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the
last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to
engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions.  Some
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would
not be able to give them so much of your time.  But (with a smile) you
would be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would
know where to go when you left them."

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this point,
as you think now.  It has been, and is, and probably will always be a
heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage
me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like
independence.  But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my
friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being.  We never
could agree in our choice of a profession.  I always preferred the
church, as I still do.  But that was not smart enough for my family.
They recommended the army.  That was a great deal too smart for me.
The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had
chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first
circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs.  But I had no
inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which
my family approved.  As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I
was too old when the subject was first started to enter it--and, at
length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all,
as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as
with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous
and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so
earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his
friends to do nothing.  I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been
properly idle ever since."

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,
"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will
be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades
as Columella's."

"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as
unlike myself as is possible.  In feeling, in action, in condition, in
every thing."

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
Edward.  You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike
yourself must be happy.  But remember that the pain of parting from
friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their
education or state.  Know your own happiness.  You want nothing but
patience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.  Your
mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so
anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her
happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.
How much may not a few months do?"

"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce any
good to me."

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to
Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which
shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's
feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.
But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself
from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his
going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by
Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by
seeking silence, solitude and idleness.  Their means were as different
as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the
house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor
avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as
much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this
conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented
from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much
solicitude on her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no
more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.
The business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong
affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections WERE calm, she dared not deny, though she
blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a
very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in
spite of this mortifying conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in
determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to
indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough
to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible
variety which the different state of her spirits at different times
could produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.
There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her
mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,
conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was
produced.  Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not
be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so
interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross
her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was
roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of
company.  She happened to be quite alone.  The closing of the little
gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew
her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the
door.  Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,
but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown
to her.  She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John
perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open
the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the
door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one
without being heard at the other.

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers.  How do you like
them?"

"Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do.  It is only the Palmers.  Charlotte is very
pretty, I can tell you.  You may see her if you look this way."

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to
wait till the door was opened before she told HER story.  She came
hallooing to the window, "How do you do, my dear?  How does Mrs.
Dashwood do?  And where are your sisters?  What! all alone! you will be
glad of a little company to sit with you.  I have brought my other son
and daughter to see you.  Only think of their coming so suddenly!  I
thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,
but it never entered my head that it could be them.  I thought of
nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so
I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel
Brandon come back again"--

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two
strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same
time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings
continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour,
attended by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally
unlike her in every respect.  She was short and plump, had a very
pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could
possibly be.  Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,
but they were much more prepossessing.  She came in with a smile,
smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled
when she went away.  Her husband was a grave looking young man of five
or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife,
but of less willingness to please or be pleased.  He entered the room
with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without
speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their
apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read
it as long as he staid.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a
turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so
charming!  Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last!
I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.
Dashwood) but you have made it so charming!  Only look, sister, how
delightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!
Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the
newspaper.

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does
sometimes.  It is so ridiculous!"

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to
find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing
their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told.  Mrs. Palmer
laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every
body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an
agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice
as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on
different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they
had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,
for they came all round by London upon account of some business, for
you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was
wrong in her situation.  I wanted her to stay at home and rest this
morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.

"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in
the paper.

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John.  "Now, Palmer, you shall see a
monstrous pretty girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
ushered her in himself.  Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she
appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so
heartily at the question, as to show she understood it.  Mr. Palmer
looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and
then returned to his newspaper.  Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by
the drawings which hung round the room.  She got up to examine them.

"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are!  Well! how delightful!  Do but
look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look
at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot
that there were any such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down
the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at
the park.  Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener
than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;
her daughters might do as they pleased.  But they had no curiosity to
see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of
pleasure from them in any other way.  They attempted, therefore,
likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not
likely to be good.  But Sir John would not be satisfied--the carriage
should be sent for them and they must come.  Lady Middleton too, though
she did not press their mother, pressed them.  Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.
Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a
family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.

"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very
hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying
either with them, or with us."

"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by
these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a
few weeks ago.  The alteration is not in them, if their parties are
grown tedious and dull.  We must look for the change elsewhere."



CHAPTER 20


As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next
day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as
good humoured and merry as before.  She took them all most
affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them
again.

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor and
Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,
which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must
go, for the Westons come to us next week you know.  It was quite a
sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the
carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I
would go with him to Barton.  He is so droll! He never tells me any
thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again
in town very soon, I hope."

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not.  I could get the nicest house in the world for
you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square.  You must come, indeed.  I
am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."

They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered
the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to
town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began
complaining of the weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he.  "Such weather makes every thing and
every body disgusting.  Dullness is as much produced within doors as
without, by rain.  It makes one detest all one's acquaintance.  What
the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his
house?  How few people know what comfort is!  Sir John is as stupid as
the weather."

The rest of the company soon dropt in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to
take your usual walk to Allenham today."

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think
he is extremely handsome.  We do not live a great way from him in the
country, you know.  Not above ten miles, I dare say."

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

"Ah, well! there is not much difference.  I never was at his house; but
they say it is a sweet pretty place."

"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
interest in what was said.

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other
place that is so pretty I suppose."

When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret
that they were only eight all together.

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be
so few.  Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"

"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done?  They dined with us last."

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such
ceremony."

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.

"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual
laugh.  "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother
ill-bred."

"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady,
"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.
So there I have the whip hand of you."

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid
of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,
as they must live together.  It was impossible for any one to be more
thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.
Palmer.  The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was
highly diverted.

"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor.  "He is
always out of humour."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit
for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear.  His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly
woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any
sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of
distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of
every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him.  It was
the desire of appearing superior to other people.  The motive was too
common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by
establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach
any one to him except his wife.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have
got such a favour to ask of you and your sister.  Will you come and
spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas?  Now, pray do,--and come
while the Westons are with us.  You cannot think how happy I shall be!
It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband, "don't
you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no
other view."

"There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

"But indeed you must and shall come.  I am sure you will like it of all
things.  The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay
now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I
never saw before, it is quite charming!  But, poor fellow! it is very
fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him."

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
hardship of such an obligation.

"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh!  It will be so ridiculous to
see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he
says, he will never frank for me?  He declares he won't.  Don't you,
Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued--"he says it is quite
shocking."

"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational.  Don't palm all
your abuses of languages upon me."

"There now; you see how droll he is.  This is always the way with him!
Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he
comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world."

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,
by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.

"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."

"Well--I am so glad you do.  I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can
tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't
come to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it."

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the
subject, put a stop to her entreaties.  She thought it probable that as
they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some
more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could
be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she
was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as
might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne.  She began by
inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether
they were intimately acquainted with him.

"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not
that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.
Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was
at Allenham.  Mama saw him here once before;--but I was with my uncle
at Weymouth.  However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of
him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we
should never have been in the country together.  He is very little at
Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr.
Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and
besides it is such a way off.  I know why you inquire about him, very
well; your sister is to marry him.  I am monstrous glad of it, for then
I shall have her for a neighbour you know."

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than
I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks
of.  I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

"Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in
Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

"You surprise me very much.  Colonel Brandon tell you of it!  Surely
you must be mistaken.  To give such intelligence to a person who could
not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should
expect Colonel Brandon to do."

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how
it happened.  When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and
so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and
another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to
Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty,
and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe
Magna.  Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been
in Devonshire so lately.'"

"And what did the Colonel say?"

"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so
from that moment I set it down as certain.  It will be quite
delightful, I declare!  When is it to take place?"

"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?"

"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but
say fine things of you."

"I am flattered by his commendation.  He seems an excellent man; and I
think him uncommonly pleasing."

"So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should
be so grave and so dull.  Mama says HE was in love with your sister
too.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly
ever falls in love with any body."

"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.

"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all
think him extremely agreeable I assure you.  Nobody is more liked than
Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister.  She
is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he
is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and
agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her.  However, I don't
think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think
you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,
though we could not get him to own it last night."

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.

"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued
Charlotte.--"And now I hope we shall always be great friends.  You
can't think how much I longed to see you!  It is so delightful that you
should live at the cottage!  Nothing can be like it, to be sure!  And I
am so glad your sister is going to be well married!  I hope you will be
a great deal at Combe Magna.  It is a sweet place, by all accounts."

"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"

"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a
particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice,
"he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could.  Sir John
and Lady Middleton wished it very much.  But mama did not think the
match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to
the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately."

"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made?  Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"

"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have
liked it of all things.  He had not seen me then above twice, for it
was before I left school.  However, I am much happier as I am.  Mr.
Palmer is the kind of man I like."



CHAPTER 21


The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at
Barton were again left to entertain each other.  But this did not last
long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had
hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at
Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir
John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society,
procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,
whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to
the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.
Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an
invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the
return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a
visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose
elegance,--whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for
the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for
nothing at all.  Their being her relations too made it so much the
worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore
unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about
their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put
up with one another.  As it was impossible, however, now to prevent
their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with
all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely
giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times
every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or
unfashionable.  Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil,
they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,
and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady
Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had
been an hour at the Park.  She declared them to be very agreeable girls
indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration.  Sir John's
confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he
set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss
Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls
in the world.  From such commendation as this, however, there was not
much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the
world were to be met with in every part of England, under every
possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.  Sir John
wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his
guests.  Benevolent, philanthropic man!  It was painful to him even to
keep a third cousin to himself.

"Do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall
come--You can't think how you will like them.  Lucy is monstrous
pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable!  The children are all
hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.  And they
both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that
you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them
it is all very true, and a great deal more.  You will be delighted with
them I am sure.  They have brought the whole coach full of playthings
for the children.  How can you be so cross as not to come?  Why they
are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.  YOU are my cousins, and
they are my wife's, so you must be related."

But Sir John could not prevail.  He could only obtain a promise of
their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in
amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their
attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the
Miss Steeles to them.

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to
these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the
eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible
face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or
three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features
were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air,
which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction
to her person.-- Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon
allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what
constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable
to Lady Middleton.  With her children they were in continual raptures,
extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their
whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate
demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of
whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing,
or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her
appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.
Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond
mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most
rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands
are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive
affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were
viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or
distrust.  She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent
encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their
work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt
no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment.  It suggested no other
surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by,
without claiming a share in what was passing.

"John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's
pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"He is full of
monkey tricks."

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the
same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"

"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing
a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last
two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was there
such a quiet little thing!"

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's
head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this
pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone
by any creature professedly noisy.  The mother's consternation was
excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which
affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little
sufferer.  She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her
wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was
on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by
the other.  With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to
cease crying.  She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two
brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were
ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of
similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been
successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly
proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of
screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that
it would not be rejected.-- She was carried out of the room therefore
in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys
chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay
behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room
had not known for many hours.

"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.
"It might have been a very sad accident."

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under
totally different circumstances.  But this is the usual way of
heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."

"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not
feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole
task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.  She did
her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more
warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.

"And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!"

Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,
came in without any eclat.  She merely observed that he was perfectly
good humoured and friendly.

"And what a charming little family they have!  I never saw such fine
children in my life.--I declare I quite doat upon them already, and
indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have
witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather
too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is
so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children
full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and
quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never
think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now
said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?
I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of
the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Steele.

"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed
to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

"I think every one MUST admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the
place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do."

"And had you a great many smart beaux there?  I suppose you have not so
many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast
addition always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,
"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't.  I'm
sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could
I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only
afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not
so many as they used to have.  But perhaps you young ladies may not
care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them.
For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress
smart and behave civil.  But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty.
Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a
beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of
a morning, he is not fit to be seen.-- I suppose your brother was quite
a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not
perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word.  But this I can say, that
if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is
not the smallest alteration in him."

"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have
something else to do."

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but
beaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else."
And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the
furniture.

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough.  The vulgar freedom and
folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not
blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want
of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish
of knowing them better.

Not so the Miss Steeles.--They came from Exeter, well provided with
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his
relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair
cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,
accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom
they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.-- And to be
better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable
lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,
their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of
intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two
together in the same room almost every day.  Sir John could do no more;
but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in
his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their
meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established
friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew
or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate
particulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the
eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as
to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said
she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome.  And I
hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have
a friend in the corner already."

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in
proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been
with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of
the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since
Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to
her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and
winks, as to excite general attention.  The letter F--had been likewise
invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless
jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had
been long established with Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these
jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the
name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently
expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness
into the concerns of their family.  But Sir John did not sport long
with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as
much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.

"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do
not tell it, for it's a great secret."

"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?
What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable
young man to be sure; I know him very well."

"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment
to all her sister's assertions.  "Though we have seen him once or twice
at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise.  "And who was this
uncle?  Where did he live?  How came they acquainted?"  She wished very
much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in
it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in
her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after
petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it.  The manner
in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for
it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion
of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his
disadvantage.--But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice
was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even
openly mentioned by Sir John.



CHAPTER 22


Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of
taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from
the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to
encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her
behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on
their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself
which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of
Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of
striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank
communication of her sentiments.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and
as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;
but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and
illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of
information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from
Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to
advantage.  Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities
which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with
less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her
assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no
lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity
with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in
conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made
every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly
valueless.

"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her
one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your
sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?"

Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have
seen her at Norland sometimes.  Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what
sort of a woman she is?"

"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's
mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity-- "I know nothing of her."

"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps
there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you
will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
silence.  It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by
saying, with some hesitation,

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious.  I am sure I
would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours.  And I am sure I
should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be
very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable
situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU.
I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

"I am sorry I do NOT," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could
be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her.  But really I never
understood that you were at all connected with that family, and
therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry
into her character."

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it.  But
if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised.  Mrs.
Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY
come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be
very intimately connected."

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side
glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean?  Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars?  Can you be?" And she did not feel much
delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my
life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it.  She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though
her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no
danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could
have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always
meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so
by me to this hour.  Not a soul of all my relations know of it but
Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt
the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really
thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars
must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained.  And I do not think
Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you,
because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your
family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as
his own sisters."--She paused.

Elinor for a few moments remained silent.  Her astonishment at what she
heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself
to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,
which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "May I ask
if your engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.

"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date.  He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes; Mr. Pratt.  Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
increased with her increase of emotion.

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth.  It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me
was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was
formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he
was almost always with us afterwards.  I was very unwilling to enter
into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of
his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so
prudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well
as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible
he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after
a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's
honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward
Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,
that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake
of person or name.  We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling.  "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow
that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who
all my happiness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I
should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange.  Our first care has
been to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family,
and, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name
to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's
suspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it."

She was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not
sink with it.

"Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait.  Poor
Edward!  It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature
from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be
so good as to look at this face.  It does not do him justice, to be
sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was
drew for.--I have had it above these three years."

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or
her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she
could have none of its being Edward's face.  She returned it almost
instantly, acknowledging the likeness.

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in
return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
anxious to get it!  But I am determined to set for it the very first
opportunity."

"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly.  They then
proceeded a few paces in silence.  Lucy spoke first.

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully
keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to
us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it,
I dare say.  I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding
proud woman."

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me
no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on.  Your
secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so
unnecessary a communication.  You must at least have felt that my being
acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no
change.

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she, "in telling you all this.  I have not known you long to be
sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by
description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as
if you was an old acquaintance.  Besides in the present case, I really
thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular
inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have
not a creature whose advice I can ask.  Anne is the only person that
knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a
great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her
betraying me.  She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must
perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world
t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she
should out with it all.  You can't think how much I go through in my
mind from it altogether.  I only wonder that I am alive after what I
have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years.  Every thing in
such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly
meet above twice a-year.  I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.

"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it
would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."  As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion.  "But then at
other times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the
thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such
a thing would do.  And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I
don't think I could be equal to it.  What would you advise me to do in
such a case, Miss Dashwood?  What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give
you no advice under such circumstances.  Your own judgment must direct
you."

"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor
Edward is so cast down by it!  Did you not think him dreadful
low-spirited when he was at Barton?  He was so miserable when he left
us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him
quite ill."

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us.  Did you think he
came directly from town?"

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that
he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She
remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing
farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to
their names.

"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than
a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I
am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched
spirits.  I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter
from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.  "You
know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not
written so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just
filled the sheet to me as full as possible."

Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer.  This
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few
moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she
could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she
struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that
her success was speedy, and for the time complete.

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations.  Yes, I
have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
THAT.  If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy.  I gave him
a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and
that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
before.  She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther.  After sitting with them a
few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then
at liberty to think and be wretched.





[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]





CHAPTER 23


However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,
it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the
present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of
inventing a falsehood of such a description.  What Lucy had asserted to
be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported
as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and
contradicted by nothing but her own wishes.  Their opportunity of
acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest,
at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth,
his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects,
his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the
Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had
often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed
altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of
condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality
could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.--Her resentment of such
behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time
made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,
soon arose.  Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her?  Had he
feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?  Was his engagement to
Lucy an engagement of the heart?  No; whatever it might once have been,
she could not believe it such at present.  His affection was all her
own.  She could not be deceived in that.  Her mother, sisters, Fanny,
all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an
illusion of her own vanity.  He certainly loved her.  What a softener
of the heart was this persuasion!  How much could it not tempt her to
forgive!  He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at
Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it
ought to be.  In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured
her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable,
his was hopeless.  His imprudence had made her miserable for a while;
but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being
otherwise.  She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he
to look forward to?  Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele;
could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his
integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a
wife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish?

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every
thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding
years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the
understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,
while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society
and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity
which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties
from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely
to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in
connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself.  These
difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not
press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the
person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness,
could be felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept
for him, more than for herself.  Supported by the conviction of having
done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the
belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought
she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command
herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother
and sisters.  And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,
that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first
suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have
supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning
in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object
of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the
perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly
possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove
near their house.

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been
entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing
exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress.  On the contrary it
was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give
such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that
condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of
their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt
equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive
no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their
example nor from their praise.  She was stronger alone, and her own
good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,
her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so
poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the
subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for
more reasons than one.  She wanted to hear many particulars of their
engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what
Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her
declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to
convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her
calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in
it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary
agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful.  That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very
probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her
praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to
trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so
confessedly and evidently important.  And even Sir John's joking
intelligence must have had some weight.  But indeed, while Elinor
remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by
Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it
natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very
confidence was a proof.  What other reason for the disclosure of the
affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of
Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?
She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's
intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every
principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection
for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny
herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was
unwounded.  And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on
the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own
ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take
advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine
enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most
easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at
least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at
the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of
conversation.  Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady
Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for
a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.  They met for
the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,
or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at
the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they
would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to
attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,
except her mother and the two Miss Steeles.  Elinor, who foresaw a
fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this
was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil
and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united
them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the
invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally
compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their
parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her
seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from
the frightful solitude which had threatened her.  The insipidity of the
meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one
novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting
than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and
drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while
they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of
engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it.  They quitted it only with the
removal of the tea-things.  The card-table was then placed, and Elinor
began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of
finding time for conversation at the park.  They all rose up in
preparation for a round game.

"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish
poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt
your eyes to work filigree by candlelight.  And we will make the dear
little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I
hope she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,
"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting
to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have
been at my filigree already.  I would not disappoint the little angel
for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am
resolved to finish the basket after supper."

"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes--will you ring the
bell for some working candles?  My poor little girl would be sadly
disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for
though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon
having it done."

Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an
alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no
greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others.  No one made
any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms
of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness
to excuse ME--you know I detest cards.  I shall go to the piano-forte;
I have not touched it since it was tuned."  And without farther
ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that SHE had never made
so rude a speech.

"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"
said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not
much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever
heard."

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be
of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be
impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening.  I
should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy,
"for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was;
and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after
all."

"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele-- "Dear little
soul, how I do love her!"

"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really
like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till
another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a
little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to
practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same
time.  Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair
rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the
utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.  The pianoforte at
which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had
by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,
was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might
safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting
subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.



CHAPTER 24


In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,
if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its
subject.  I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again."

"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my
heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday."

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke
it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my
intention than to give you such an idea.  Could you have a motive for
the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"

"And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of
meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
manner that made me quite uncomfortable.  I felt sure that you was
angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for
having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.  But I am
very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not
blame me.  If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my
heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of
my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am
sure."

"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,
to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall
never have reason to repent it.  Your case is a very unfortunate one;
you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have
need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.  Mr.
Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect
of more without a sigh.  I have been always used to a very small
income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too
well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his
mother might give him if he married to please her.  We must wait, it
may be for many years.  With almost every other man in the world, it
would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy
nothing can deprive me of I know."

"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
supported by the same trust in your's.  If the strength of your
reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under
many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,
your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance
from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the
test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and
it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt
it now.  I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm
on that account from the first."

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

Lucy went on.  "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from
our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the
world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for
suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been
the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any
lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked
more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at
Longstaple than he used to be.  I do not mean to say that I am
particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case
I am sure I could not be deceived."

"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us."

"But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have
you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to
this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which
it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a
while by owning the truth?"

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while!  But Mrs.
Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger
upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and
the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination
for hasty measures."

"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.

"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother--silly and a great coxcomb."

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- "Oh, they are talking of
their favourite beaux, I dare say."

"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux
are NOT great coxcombs."

"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings,
laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved
young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
creature, there is no finding out who SHE likes."

"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare
say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss
Dashwood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself.  Lucy bit her lip, and looked
angrily at her sister.  A mutual silence took place for some time.
Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne
was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent
concerto--

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my
head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into
the secret, for you are a party concerned.  I dare say you have seen
enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other
profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he
can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind
enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard
to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living;
which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not
likely to live a great while.  That would be enough for us to marry
upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."

"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my
interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?  He is
brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to
her husband."

"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into
orders."

"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."

They were again silent for many minutes.  At length Lucy exclaimed with
a deep sigh,

"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at
once by dissolving the engagement.  We seem so beset with difficulties
on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we
should be happier perhaps in the end.  But you will not give me your
advice, Miss Dashwood?"

"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not.  You know very well
that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the
side of your wishes."

"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know
nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do
really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all
means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be
more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it
immediately."

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and
replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any
opinion on the subject had I formed one.  It raises my influence much
too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too
much for an indifferent person."

"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your
judgment might justly have such weight with me.  If you could be
supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion
would not be worth having."

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and
was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.  Another
pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and
Lucy was still the first to end it.

"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she with all
her accustomary complacency.

"Certainly not."

"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at
the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
there!  But I dare say you will go for all that.  To be sure, your
brother and sister will ask you to come to them."

"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who
have been wanting us to visit them these several years!  But I only go
for the sake of seeing Edward.  He will be there in February, otherwise
London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it."

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first
rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore
at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for
nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other
less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table
with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without
affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not
even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere
affection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could
induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so
thoroughly aware that he was weary.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when
entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,
and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness
whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the
former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility
would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which
Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
what the first invitation implied.  Their favour increased; they could
not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of
their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the
absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was
in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay
nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of
that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private
balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.



CHAPTER 25


Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of
the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without
a settled habitation of her own.  Since the death of her husband, who
had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had
resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman
Square.  Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to
turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very
unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.
Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the
animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself
to be speaking their united inclinations.  The reason alleged was their
determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the
year.  Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and
repeated her invitation immediately.

"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg
you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon
it.  Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't
put myself at all out of my way for you.  It will only be sending Betty
by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT.  We three shall be able to
go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like
to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my
daughters.  I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had
such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will
think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't
get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it
shall not be my fault.  I shall speak a good word for you to all the
young men, you may depend upon it."

"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object
to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.  It is very
hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
Dashwood does not wish it.  So I would advise you two, to set off for
town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
Dashwood about it."

"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the
more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for
them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk
to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.  But one or
the other, if not both of them, I must have.  Lord bless me! how do you
think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till
this winter to have Charlotte with me.  Come, Miss Marianne, let us
strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her
mind by and bye, why so much the better."

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth:
"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give
me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,
to be able to accept it.  But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I
feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made
less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should
tempt me to leave her.  It should not, must not be a struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw
to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her
eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's
decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had
particular reasons to avoid.  Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her
mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the
latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had
never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain
the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.  That
Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.
Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be
most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,
was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to
witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such
an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of
their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual
cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,
from this separation.

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could
wish.  Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and
happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret
so improved when you come back again!  I have a little plan of
alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
any inconvenience to any one.  It is very right that you SHOULD go to
town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London.  You will be
under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to
you I can have no doubt.  And in all probability you will see your
brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,
when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly
estranged from each other."

"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you
have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which
occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
cannot be so easily removed."

Marianne's countenance sunk.

"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to
suggest?  What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?  Do let
me hear a word about the expense of it."

"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
whose protection will give us consequence."

"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton."

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said
Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation.  I
have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every
unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved
within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left
to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her
domestic hours.  To this determination she was the more easily
reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was
not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

"I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are
nonsensical.  You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her
acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the
shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this
attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin
her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars
very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of
the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am
ever known to them or not."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing.  Marianne lifted up her eyes in
astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held
her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the
invitation should be fully accepted.  Mrs. Jennings received the
information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness
and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.  Sir John was
delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of
being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in
London, was something.  Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being
delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for
the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in
their lives as this intelligence made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with
less reluctance than she had expected to feel.  With regard to herself,
it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and
when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her
sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she
could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow
herself to distrust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the
perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.  Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;
and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of
the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of
eternal.

Their departure took place in the first week in January.  The
Middletons were to follow in about a week.  The Miss Steeles kept their
station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the
family.



CHAPTER 26


Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and
beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance
with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and
disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure
only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy
ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been
overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt
of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful
expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless
her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would
engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same
animating object in view, the same possibility of hope.  A short, a
very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions
were; in all probability he was already in town.  Marianne's eagerness
to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was
resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character
which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,
but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such
zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,
before many meetings had taken place.  Should the result of her
observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open
the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be
of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish
comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction
in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they
travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be.  She sat in
silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty
within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively
addressed to her sister.  To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor
took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had
assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,
talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she
could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all
possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and
enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their
own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring
salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets.  They reached town by
three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,
from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury
of a good fire.

The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies
were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.  It
had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a
landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having
spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her
mother, and sat down for that purpose.  In a few moments Marianne did
the same.  "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you
better defer your letter for a day or two?"

"I am NOT going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily, and
as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry.  Elinor said no more; it
immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and
the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however
mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be
engaged.  This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her
pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no
more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity.  Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed
for her to the two-penny post.  This decided the matter at once.

Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them
which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on.  She could scarcely eat any
dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed
anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much
engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.  The tea
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more
than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly
heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor
felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,
starting up, moved towards the door.  Every thing was silent; this
could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few
steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned
into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard
him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby,
indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms,
when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately
left the room.  Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive
that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing
him.  She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even
observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and
concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded
towards herself.

"Is your sister ill?" said he.

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which
she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about
their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
of both engaged elsewhere.  Elinor wished very much to ask whether
Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by
any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,
she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
"Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have
been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in
my power to return to Barton."

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to
her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she
was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the
subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in.  "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not
come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a
little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been
at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do
after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to
settle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner!
But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town
today?"

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been
dining."

"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house?  How does
Charlotte do?  I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much.  Well, Colonel, I have brought two
young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,
but there is another somewhere.  Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which
you will not be sorry to hear.  I do not know what you and Mr.
Willoughby will do between you about her.  Ay, it is a fine thing to be
young and handsome.  Well! I was young once, but I never was very
handsome--worse luck for me.  However, I got a very good husband, and I
don't know what the greatest beauty can do more.  Ah! poor man! he has
been dead these eight years and better.  But Colonel, where have you
been to since we parted?  And how does your business go on?  Come,
come, let's have no secrets among friends."

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
without satisfying her in any.  Elinor now began to make the tea, and
Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
stay long.  No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were
unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
expectation of what was to happen that day.  They had not long finished
their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and
in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see
them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure
from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again.  So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all
along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having
declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven
them if they had not come!

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think
he said when he heard of your coming with Mama?  I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!"

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,
or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their
acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on
Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all
accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to
which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at
first was induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch.  In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in
constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind
was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all
that interested and occupied the others.  Restless and dissatisfied
every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article
of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received
no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and
could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.
Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;
who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had
they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when
Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful
countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.

"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to
the footman who then entered with the parcels.  She was answered in the
negative.  "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied.  "Are you certain
that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister
with uneasiness.  "If she had not known him to be in town she would not
have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;
and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!
Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement
between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in
so doubtful, so mysterious a manner!  I long to inquire; and how will
MY interference be borne."

She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued
many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in
the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious
enquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
them.  The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening
engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table
for the others.  Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she
would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her
own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure
to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment.  She sometimes endeavoured
for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she
returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and
forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the
window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.



CHAPTER 27


"If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when they
met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like leaving
Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's
pleasure.  Poor souls!  I always pity them when they do; they seem to
take it so much to heart."

"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the
window as she spoke, to examine the day.  "I had not thought of that.
This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
"It is charming weather for THEM indeed," she continued, as she sat
down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance.  "How much they
must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be
expected to last long.  At this time of the year, and after such a
series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it.  Frosts
will soon set in, and in all probability with severity.  In another day
or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,
perhaps it may freeze tonight!"

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from
seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we
shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week."

"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do.  Mary always has her own way."

"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by
this day's post."

But if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy
which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact.  Whatever the
truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough
contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could
not be very uncomfortable herself.  And Marianne was in spirits; happy
in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of
a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and
Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,
watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the
air.

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There
seems to me a very decided difference.  I can hardly keep my hands warm
even in my muff.  It was not so yesterday, I think.  The clouds seem
parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear
afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,
and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in
the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching
frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.
Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her
behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind.  Every thing in her
household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and
excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she
had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at
all discompose the feelings of her young companions.  Pleased to find
herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had
expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real
enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or
abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with
them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,
who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from
any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much
concern his continued regard for her sister.  She feared it was a
strengthening regard.  It grieved her to see the earnestness with which
he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than
when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was
also arrived.  His card was on the table when they came in from the
morning's drive.

"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out."
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to
say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow."  But Marianne
seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with
the precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of
her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation.  From this
moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every
hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing.  She insisted on being
left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street
during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they
returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second
visit there.  A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.

"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

"No, ma'am, for my mistress."

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!"

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer
silent.

"Yes, a little--not much."

After a short pause.  "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."

"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from YOU--you who have confidence in no
one!"

"Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike.
We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not
communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was
not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to
press for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it
aloud.  It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit
Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and
cousins the following evening.  Business on Sir John's part, and a
violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.
The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew
near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that
they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty
in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of
Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad,
than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled
in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty
young people, and to amuse them with a ball.  This was an affair,
however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve.  In the country, an
unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the
reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it
was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it
known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine
couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had
not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid
the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore
never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their
entrance.  He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they
were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the
room.  Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it
was enough--HE was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to
receive or communicate pleasure.  After they had been assembled about
an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his
surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first
informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said
something very droll on hearing that they were to come.

"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.

"Did you?" replied Elinor.

"When do you go back again?"

"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse.

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was
that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise.  She
complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very
well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you
would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very
pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

"Invited!" cried Marianne.

"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne said no more, but
looked exceedingly hurt.  Impatient in this situation to be doing
something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to
write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears
for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been
so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by
perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again
writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other
person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on
business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too
restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one
window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.
Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all
that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her
by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account
of her real situation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and
Colonel Brandon was announced.  Marianne, who had seen him from the
window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he
entered it.  He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing
satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in
particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her
sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening.  It was not the
first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than
once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks
unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared
on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something
particular about her.  After a pause of several minutes, their silence
was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was
to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?  Elinor was not
prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged
to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant?  He
tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to Mr.
Willoughby is very generally known."

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do
not know it."

He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my
inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy
intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are
most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons.  But
still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps
rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to
support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,
accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in
your sister's writing.  I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I
could ask the question.  Is every thing finally settled?  Is it
impossible to-?  But I have no right, and I could have no chance of
succeeding.  Excuse me, Miss Dashwood.  I believe I have been wrong in
saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I
have the strongest dependence.  Tell me that it is all absolutely
resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if
concealment be possible, is all that remains."

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for
her sister, affected her very much.  She was not immediately able to
say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for
a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give.  The real
state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known
to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable
to say too much as too little.  Yet as she was convinced that
Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel
Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and
at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought
it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than
she really knew or believed.  She acknowledged, therefore, that though
she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they
stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and
of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,
rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,
"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he
may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to
lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the
contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's
unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her
anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.



CHAPTER 28


Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
neither came nor wrote.  They were engaged about the end of that time
to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party,
Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming
equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one
look of hope or one expression of pleasure.  She sat by the
drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's
arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude,
lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and
when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the
door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as
the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another
in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full
of company, and insufferably hot.  When they had paid their tribute of
politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted
to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and
inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.  After some
time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great
distance from the table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest
conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.  She soon
caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to
speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her;
and then continued his discourse with the same lady.  Elinor turned
involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by
her.  At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance
glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him
instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--Oh! why does
he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?"

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you
feel to every body present.  Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be
composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it
was beyond her wish.  She sat in an agony of impatience which affected
every feature.

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,
and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to
him.  He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than
Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe
her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and
asked how long they had been in town.  Elinor was robbed of all
presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.  But
the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.  Her face was
crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion,
"Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?  Have you not
received my letters?  Will you not shake hands with me?"

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he
held her hand only for a moment.  During all this time he was evidently
struggling for composure.  Elinor watched his countenance and saw its
expression becoming more tranquil.  After a moment's pause, he spoke
with calmness.

"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home.  My card was not lost, I hope."

"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety.  "Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake.  What
can be the meaning of it?  Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell
me, what is the matter?"

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he
had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure
of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so
good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined
his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into
her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried
to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with
lavender water.

"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force
him to come to me.  Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him
instantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this
is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him
this moment."

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.  This is
not the place for explanations.  Wait only till tomorrow."

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him
herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least,
with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more
privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued
incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings,
by exclamations of wretchedness.  In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby
quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne
that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that
evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.  She instantly begged
her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was
too miserable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
departed as soon the carriage could be found.  Scarcely a word was
spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.  Marianne was in a
silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings
was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room,
where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.  She was soon
undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her
sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings,
had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it,
seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own
wishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or
misapprehension of any kind.  Nothing but a thorough change of
sentiment could account for it.  Her indignation would have been still
stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which
seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented
her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with
the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that
would bear investigation.  Absence might have weakened his regard, and
convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a
regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest
concern.  Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she
could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in
future, her mind might be always supported.  But every circumstance
that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery
of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and
irreconcilable rupture with him.



CHAPTER 29


Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun
gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only
half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake
of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast
as a continual flow of tears would permit her.  In this situation,
Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived
her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety,
said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,

"Marianne, may I ask-?"

"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no
longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return
of the same excessive affliction.  It was some minutes before she could
go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still
obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of
her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the
last time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and
she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not
Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous
irritability, not to speak to her for the world.  In such
circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long
together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented
her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but
requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her
wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every
body.

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it,
round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to
Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a
death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room.  Elinor, who saw as
plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come
from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her
hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as
made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings's notice.  That good
lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from
Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she
treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to
her liking.  Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in
measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and
calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,

"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
life!  MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish
enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.  I
hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much
longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
Pray, when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,
trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself
into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby?  I
thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to
imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
yourself any longer.  I do assure you that nothing would surprise me
more than to hear of their being going to be married."

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so?  Don't we
all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in
love with each other from the first moment they met?  Did not I see
them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I
know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding
clothes?  Come, come, this won't do.  Because you are so sly about it
yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such
thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so
long.  I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte."

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and
you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,
and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried
away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne
stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,
and two or three others laying by her.  Elinor drew near, but without
saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed
her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of
tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The
latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of
this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she
put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face
with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony.  Elinor, who knew
that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its
course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent
itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as
follows:

                              "Bond Street, January.
     "MY DEAR MADAM,

     "I have just had the honour of receiving your
     letter, for which I beg to return my sincere
     acknowledgments.  I am much concerned to find there
     was anything in my behaviour last night that did
     not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at
     a loss to discover in what point I could be so
     unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your
     forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been
     perfectly unintentional.  I shall never reflect on
     my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire
     without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter
     myself it will not be broken by any mistake or
     misapprehension of my actions.  My esteem for your
     whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so
     unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than
     I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself
     for not having been more guarded in my professions
     of that esteem.  That I should ever have meant more
     you will allow to be impossible, when you understand
     that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere,
     and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before
     this engagement is fulfilled.  It is with great
     regret that I obey your commands in returning the
     letters with which I have been honoured from you,
     and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed
     on me.

     "I am, dear Madam,
               "Your most obedient
                    "humble servant,
                                        "JOHN WILLOUGHBY."


With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss
Dashwood, may be imagined.  Though aware, before she began it, that it
must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their
separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be
suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable
of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and
delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to
send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing
with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no
breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever--a letter of
which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be
deep in hardened villainy.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read
it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her
abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him,
that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound
Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to
her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most
irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled
man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the
depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the
very different mind of a very different person, who had no other
connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with
every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her
sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so
entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing
a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who
could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to
perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered
till one.  Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of
contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse
herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being
indisposed.  Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for
its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing
her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise
from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from
falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest
and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many
nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer
supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was
felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
faintness.  A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,
made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some
sense of her kindness, by saying,

"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!"

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I COULD do,
which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am
miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you.  Think of your mother; think of her
misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I
distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me!  but do not torture me so.
Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
exertion!  Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I
suffer."

"Do you call ME happy, Marianne?  Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe
me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I
know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you
are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away
such happiness as that?"

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you.  You
CAN have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise.  Mine is a misery which nothing
can do away."

"You must not talk so, Marianne.  Have you no comforts? no friends?  Is
your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation?  Much as you
suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of
his character had been delayed to a later period--if your engagement
had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,
before he chose to put an end to it.  Every additional day of unhappy
confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."

"No engagement!"

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him.  He has broken no faith
with me."

"But he told you that he loved you."

"Yes--no--never absolutely.  It was every day implied, but never
professedly declared.  Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never
was."

"Yet you wrote to him?"--

"Yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?-- But I cannot
talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now
raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the
contents of all.  The first, which was what her sister had sent him on
their arrival in town, was to this effect.

                         Berkeley Street, January.

     "How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on
     receiving this; and I think you will feel something
     more than surprise, when you know that I am in town.
     An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs.
     Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist.
     I wish you may receive this in time to come here
     to-night, but I will not depend on it.  At any rate
     I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

                                             "M.D."

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance
at the Middletons', was in these words:--

     "I cannot express my disappointment in having
     missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment
     at not having received any answer to a note which
     I sent you above a week ago.  I have been expecting
     to hear from you, and still more to see you, every
     hour of the day.  Pray call again as soon as possible,
     and explain the reason of my having expected this
     in vain.  You had better come earlier another time,
     because we are generally out by one.  We were last
     night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance.
     I have been told that you were asked to be of the
     party.  But could it be so?  You must be very much
     altered indeed since we parted, if that could be
     the case, and you not there.  But I will not suppose
     this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your
     personal assurance of its being otherwise.

                                            "M.D."

The contents of her last note to him were these:--

     "What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your
     behaviour last night?  Again I demand an explanation
     of it.  I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure
     which our separation naturally produced, with the
     familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared
     to me to justify.  I was repulsed indeed! I have
     passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse
     a conduct which can scarcely be called less than
     insulting; but though I have not yet been able to
     form any reasonable apology for your behaviour,
     I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of
     it.  You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely
     deceived, in something concerning me, which may have
     lowered me in your opinion.  Tell me what it is,
     explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall
     be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you.  It
     would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill
     of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that
     you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that
     your regard for us all was insincere, that your
     behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let
     it be told as soon as possible.  My feelings are at
     present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish
     to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be
     ease to what I now suffer.  If your sentiments are
     no longer what they were, you will return my notes,
     and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

                                             "M.D."

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been
so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling
to believe.  But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the
impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently
grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs
of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely
condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished
the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any
one would have written in the same situation.

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if
the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the
same."

"He DID feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it.  I know
he did.  Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the
blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear
to him as my own soul could wish.  This lock of hair, which now he can
so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest
supplication.  Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his
voice at that moment!  Have you forgot the last evening of our being
together at Barton?  The morning that we parted too!  When he told me
that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I
ever forget his distress?"

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had
passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,

"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."

"Dearest Marianne, who but himself?  By whom can he have been
instigated?"

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart.  I could rather
believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me
in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty.  This
woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your
own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me.
Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not
rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?"

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so
detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,
my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own
innocence and good intentions supports your spirits.  It is a
reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride.  I care
not who knows that I am wretched.  The triumph of seeing me so may be
open to all the world.  Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be
proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return
mortification--but I cannot.  I must feel--I must be wretched--and they
are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

"But for my mother's sake and mine--"

"I would do more than for my own.  But to appear happy when I am so
miserable--Oh! who can require it?"

Again they were both silent.  Elinor was employed in walking
thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,
without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning
objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed,
with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up
Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,
exclaimed--

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!
Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you.  Elinor, nothing can.  Whatever
he might have heard against me--ought he not to have suspended his
belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power
of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)
which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--That is unpardonable.
Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words?  Oh,
barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it
may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who is
she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and
attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one--he
talked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.

"Elinor, I must go home.  I must go and comfort mama.  Can not we be
gone to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and
now who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more
than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a
hasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I
cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.
The Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity?  The pity of
such a woman as Lady Middleton!  Oh, what would HE say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but
no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body
she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more
hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at
all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for
assistance.  Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length
persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings
returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.



CHAPTER 30


Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without
waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and
walked in with a look of real concern.

"How do you do my dear?"--said she in a voice of great compassion to
Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

"How is she, Miss Dashwood?--Poor thing! she looks very bad.-- No
wonder.  Ay, it is but too true.  He is to be married very soon--a
good-for-nothing fellow!  I have no patience with him.  Mrs. Taylor
told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular
friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed
it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.  Well, said I, all I can
say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my
acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may
plague his heart out.  And so I shall always say, my dear, you may
depend on it.  I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if
ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not
had this many a day.  But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne;
he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your
pretty face you will never want admirers.  Well, poor thing!  I won't
disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and
have done with.  The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight
you know, and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she
supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
them.  Elinor even advised her against it.  But "no, she would go down;
she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."
Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,
though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,
said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer
than her sister had expected.  Had she tried to speak, or had she been
conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions
to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a
syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its
effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made
her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her
sister could not make or return for herself.  Their good friend saw
that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her
which might make her at all less so.  She treated her therefore, with
all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the
last day of its holidays.  Marianne was to have the best place by the
fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to
be amused by the relation of all the news of the day.  Had not Elinor,
in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she
could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a
disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a
good fire.  As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was
forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.
With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to
follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it
grieves me to see her!  And I declare if she is not gone away without
finishing her wine!  And the dried cherries too!  Lord! nothing seems
to do her any good.  I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
would send all over the town for it.  Well, it is the oddest thing to
me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill!  But when there is
plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless
you! they care no more about such things!--"

"The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her--is very rich?"

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear.  Did you ever see her? a smart,
stylish girl they say, but not handsome.  I remember her aunt very
well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.  But the family
are all rich together.  Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it
won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.  No
wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters!  Well, it don't
signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes
love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly
off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is
ready to have him.  Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let
his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I
warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters
came round.  But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of
pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."

"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is?  Is she said to be
amiable?"

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day
Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would
not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could
never agree."--

"And who are the Ellisons?"

"Her guardians, my dear.  But now she is of age and may choose for
herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a
moment--"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan
by herself.  Is there nothing one can get to comfort her?  Poor dear,
it seems quite cruel to let her be alone.  Well, by-and-by we shall
have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.  What shall we
play at?  She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares
for?"

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.  Marianne, I dare say,
will not leave her room again this evening.  I shall persuade her if I
can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her.  Let her name her own
supper, and go to bed.  Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and
so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been
hanging over her head as long as that.  And so the letter that came
today finished it!  Poor soul!  I am sure if I had had a notion of it,
I would not have joked her about it for all my money.  But then you
know, how should I guess such a thing?  I made sure of its being
nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be
laughed at about them.  Lord!  how concerned Sir John and my daughters
will be when they hear it!  If I had my senses about me I might have
called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it.  But I
shall see them tomorrow."

"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and
Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
allusion to what has passed, before my sister.  Their own good-nature
must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing
about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my
dear madam will easily believe."

"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed.  It must be terrible for you to hear
it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a
word about it to her for the world.  You saw I did not all dinner time.
No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very
thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I
certainly will.  For my part, I think the less that is said about such
things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot.  And what
does talking ever do you know?"

"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases
of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for
the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the
public conversation.  I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby--he has
broken no positive engagement with my sister."

"Law, my dear!  Don't pretend to defend him.  No positive engagement
indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the
very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and
she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though
Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement
of the real truth.  After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings,
with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be
all the better for Colonel Brandon.  He will have her at last; aye,
that he will.  Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer.  Lord!
how he'll chuckle over this news!  I hope he will come tonight.  It
will be all to one a better match for your sister.  Two thousand a year
without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I
had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then
what does it signify?  Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;
exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in
one corner!  Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were
there!  Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a
very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;
and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages
that pass along.  Oh! 'tis a nice place!  A butcher hard by in the
village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.  To my fancy,
a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to
send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than
your mother.  Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can.
One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.  If we CAN but
put Willoughby out of her head!"

"Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well
with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to
join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,
till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received
from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this,
from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first
refused to do.  Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,
however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her
aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet
rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by
Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have
some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister.  My poor
husband! how fond he was of it!  Whenever he had a touch of his old
colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the
world.  Do take it to your sister."

"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are!  But I have
just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think
nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me
leave, I will drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she
swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a
colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing
powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself
as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that
he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he
was already aware of what occasioned her absence.  Mrs. Jennings was
not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked
across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered--
"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.  He knows nothing of it;
do tell him, my dear."

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look
which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her
sister.

"Marianne is not well," said she.  "She has been indisposed all day,
and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning
may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
first."

"What did you hear?"

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,
whom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I tell you?  If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's
marriage with Miss Grey.  Yes, we DO know it all.  This seems to have
been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded
it to us.  Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable!  Where did you hear it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business.  Two ladies
were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all.  The name
of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was
no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters.  One thing,
especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe
Magna, his seat in Somersetshire.  My astonishment!--but it would be
impossible to describe what I felt.  The communicative lady I learnt,
on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs.
Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss
Grey's guardian."

"It is.  But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds?  In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think"--he stopped
a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And
your sister--how did she--"

"Her sufferings have been very severe.  I have only to hope that they
may be proportionately short.  It has been, it is a most cruel
affliction.  Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her.  He has been very deceitful! and, in some
points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed!  But your sister does
not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?"

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
necessarily dropped.  Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
more serious and thoughtful than usual.



CHAPTER 31


From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and
before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and
again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on
Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on
Marianne's, as before.  Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as
unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every
consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.  At one moment she
was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at
another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third
could resist it with energy.  In one thing, however, she was uniform,
when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the
presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to
endure it.  Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs.
Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel.  Her kindness
is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.  All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished
manner.  Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be
that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an
excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.  She expected
from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she
judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself.  Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together
in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs.
Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own
weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though
Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."

Marianne heard enough.  In one moment her imagination placed before her
a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room
to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances
of his letter.  The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.  The
hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her;
and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an
ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had
never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
referring her to the letter of comfort.  But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort.  Willoughby filled
every page.  Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and
relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by
Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards
them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection
for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each
other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.
Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne
to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of
patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she
obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy
till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;
and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for
the rest of the morning.  Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the
pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's
letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then
sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat
her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the
drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table
where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly
over its effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was
startled by a rap at the door.

"Who can this be?" cried Elinor.  "So early too! I thought we HAD been
safe."

Marianne moved to the window--

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation.  "We are never safe
from HIM."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."

"I will not trust to THAT," retreating to her own room.  "A man who has
nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on
that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
saw THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first
salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
alone, which I was very desirous of doing.  My object--my wish--my sole
wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of
giving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but
conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.  My regard for
her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by
relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY sincere
regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am
justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing
myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be
wrong?" He stopped.

"I understand you," said Elinor.  "You have something to tell me of Mr.
Willoughby, that will open his character farther.  Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne.  MY
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time.  Pray, pray let me
hear it."

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but
this will give you no idea--I must go farther back.  You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin.  A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be
a short one.  On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little
temptation to be diffuse."

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a
dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in
some measure, your sister Marianne."

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have NOT forgotten it." He looked pleased
by this remembrance, and added,

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
in mind as person.  The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
fancy and spirits.  This lady was one of my nearest relations, an
orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.  Our
ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were
playfellows and friends.  I cannot remember the time when I did not
love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as
perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you
might think me incapable of having ever felt.  Hers, for me, was, I
believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and
it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.  At
seventeen she was lost to me for ever.  She was married--married
against her inclination to my brother.  Her fortune was large, and our
family estate much encumbered.  And this, I fear, is all that can be
said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.  I had hoped
that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for
some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she
experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though
she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate!  I have
never told you how this was brought on.  We were within a few hours of
eloping together for Scotland.  The treachery, or the folly, of my
cousin's maid betrayed us.  I was banished to the house of a relation
far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,
till my father's point was gained.  I had depended on her fortitude too
far, and the blow was a severe one--but had her marriage been happy, so
young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at
least I should not have now to lament it.  This however was not the
case.  My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what
they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so
inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.  She resigned
herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it
been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the
remembrance of me occasioned.  But can we wonder that, with such a
husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their
marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should
fall?  Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the
happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose
had procured my exchange.  The shock which her marriage had given me,"
he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling
weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
afterwards, of her divorce.  It was THAT which threw this gloom,--even
now the recollection of what I suffered--"

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about
the room.  Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his
distress, could not speak.  He saw her concern, and coming to her, took
her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.  A few
minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
to England.  My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek
for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.  I could
not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
sin.  Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
before to another person.  He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
dispose of it for some immediate relief.  At last, however, and after I
had been six months in England, I DID find her.  Regard for a former
servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to
visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate
sister.  So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every
kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before
me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom
I had once doted.  What I endured in so beholding her--but I have no
right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I have
pained you too much already.  That she was, to all appearance, in the
last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my
greatest comfort.  Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time
for a better preparation for death; and that was given.  I saw her
placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited
her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her
last moments."

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in
an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance
I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.  Their
fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet
disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier
marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other
be.  But to what does all this lead?  I seem to have been distressing
you for nothing.  Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched
for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all!  I WILL be
more collected--more concise.  She left to my care her only child, a
little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then
about three years old.  She loved the child, and had always kept it
with her.  It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I
have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her
education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I
had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at
school.  I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my
brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the
possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.  I
called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in
general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.  It is now
three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very
respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four
or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I
had every reason to be pleased with her situation.  But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.  I had allowed
her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire,
to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her
father there for his health.  I knew him to be a very good sort of man,
and I thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with
a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would
give no clue, though she certainly knew all.  He, her father, a
well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe,
give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house,
while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance
they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was
convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the
business.  In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all
the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.  What I
thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby!"--

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a
letter from herself, last October.  It was forwarded to me from
Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some.  Little did Mr. Willoughby
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom
he had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have
availed?  Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of
your sister?  No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel
for another would do.  He had left the girl whose youth and innocence
he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no
creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!  He had
left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
relieved her."

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than
both.  Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what
I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on
being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt
for all your sakes.  When I came to you last week and found you alone,
I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when
it WAS known.  My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but
now you will comprehend it.  To suffer you all to be so deceived; to
see your sister--but what could I do?  I had no hope of interfering
with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet
reclaim him.  But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what
were his designs on her.  Whatever they may have been, however, she may
now, and hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own
condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and
pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as
strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which
must attend her through life.  Surely this comparison must have its use
with her.  She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.  They
proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.  On the
contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it,
must strengthen every attachment.  Use your own discretion, however, in
communicating to her what I have told you.  You must know best what
will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed
it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have
suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family
afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to
raise myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him
than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do.  Now, though at first
she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.  Have
you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby
since you left him at Barton?"

"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have.  One meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

"What? have you met him to--"

"I could meet him no other way.  Eliza had confessed to me, though most
reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which
was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
defend, I to punish his conduct.  We returned unwounded, and the
meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
soldier she presumed not to censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust!"

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
she remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
and esteem for him.



CHAPTER 32


When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was
not entirely such as the former had hoped to see.  Not that Marianne
appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to
it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither
objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible.  But
though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt
WAS carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called,
in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of
compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently
irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.  Her mind did
become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.  She felt the
loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the
loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the
misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might ONCE
have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that
she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor;
and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister
than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent
confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what
her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly
less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than
Elinor's.  Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,
arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her
anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with
fortitude under this misfortune.  Bad indeed must the nature of
Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which
SHE could wish her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at
that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be
bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen
him there.  She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all
means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which,
though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at
least five or six weeks.  A variety of occupations, of objects, and of
company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable
there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some
interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the
ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
friends.  Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence
could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in
its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at
Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first
as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she
submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved
perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt
it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by
requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only
possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent
her ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil
to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other
hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward
entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay
would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better
for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's
name mentioned, was not thrown away.  Marianne, though without knowing
it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible.  "A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well!  Such a good-natured fellow!  He
did not believe there was a bolder rider in England!  It was an
unaccountable business.  He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
all the world!  No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
and they were kept watching for two hours together.  Such a scoundrel
of a fellow! such a deceitful dog!  It was only the last time they met
that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of
it!"

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.  "She was determined to
drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she
had never been acquainted with him at all.  She wished with all her
heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,
for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much
that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should
tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
them to Elinor.  She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new
carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was
drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
clamorous kindness of the others.  It was a great comfort to her to be
sure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle
of friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet
her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for
her sister's health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down
by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to
comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very
shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle
vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first
without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without
recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather
against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once
be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon
as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
to Miss Dashwood.  He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence.  His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her
voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or
could oblige herself to speak to him.  THESE assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and
THESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but
Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the
Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail
on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for
him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of
a week that it would not be a match at all.  The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all
be made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to
think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he
was married.  She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to
herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was
desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from
the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst
out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less
pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to
prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow
first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's
house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again
before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and
were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them.  Their presence always gave her
pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town.

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
STILL," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.  "But
I always thought I SHOULD.  I was almost sure you would not leave
London yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you
should not stay above a MONTH.  But I thought, at the time, that you
would most likely change your mind when it came to the point.  It would
have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and
sister came.  And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone.  I
am amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD."

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
self-command to make it appear that she did NOT.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"

"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to
attend us.  Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join
him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
twelve shillings more than we did."

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is
a single man, I warrant you."

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs
at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why.  My cousins say they
are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never
think about him from one hour's end to another.  'Lord! here comes your
beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the
street to the house.  My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who you
mean.  The Doctor is no beau of mine."

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is
the man, I see."

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg
you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a
cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

"No, I do not think we shall."

"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
so long a time together!"

"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings.  "Why, their visit is
but just begun!"

Lucy was silenced.

"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss
Steele.  "I am sorry she is not well--" for Marianne had left the room
on their arrival.

"You are very good.  My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with
nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and
me!--I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word."

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal.  Her sister was
perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore
not able to come to them.

"Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see
HER."

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she
was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which
now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.



CHAPTER 33


After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and
consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an
hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and
would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street,
where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few
old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was
a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as
she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young
friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for
them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before
them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to
their orders; and they were obliged to wait.  All that could be done
was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the
quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is
probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to
a quicker despatch.  But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy
of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness.  He was giving orders
for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and
ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating
for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were
finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to
bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised
in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to
imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong,
natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of
fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on
the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of
the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining
unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts
within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in
Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided.  The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last
day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of
the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and
bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as
seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a
happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise
to be her brother.

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop.  John Dashwood was really far
from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them
satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and
attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was
impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at
Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.
Harry was vastly pleased.  THIS morning I had fully intended to call on
you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so
much to do on first coming to town.  I am come here to bespeak Fanny a
seal.  But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in
Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings.  I
understand she is a woman of very good fortune.  And the Middletons
too, you must introduce me to THEM.  As my mother-in-law's relations, I
shall be happy to show them every respect.  They are excellent
neighbours to you in the country, I understand."

"Excellent indeed.  Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
in every particular, is more than I can express."

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are
related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to
make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.  And so you
are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for
nothing!  Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the
most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing.  It was a great satisfaction to us
to hear it, I assure you."

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to
be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.
Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for
them at the door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings
at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid.  He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."
Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand
upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she
should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her
sisters to see her.  His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly
kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel
Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be
equally civil to HIM.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him
to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented.  As soon as
they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

"Who is Colonel Brandon?  Is he a man of fortune?"

"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

"I am glad of it.  He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life."

"Me, brother! what do you mean?"

"He likes you.  I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.  What
is the amount of his fortune?"

"I believe about two thousand a year."

"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were TWICE as much, for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME."

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken.  A very little
trouble on your side secures him.  Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his
friends may all advise him against it.  But some of those little
attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix
him, in spite of himself.  And there can be no reason why you should
not try for him.  It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on
your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is
quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have
too much sense not to see all that.  Colonel Brandon must be the man;
and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with
you and your family.  It is a match that must give universal
satisfaction.  In short, it is a kind of thing that"--lowering his
voice to an important whisper--"will be exceedingly welcome to ALL
PARTIES." Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to
say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny
particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure
you.  And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am
sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
same time.  And yet it is not very unlikely."

"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be
married?"

"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
He has a most excellent mother.  Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost
liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if
the match takes place.  The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter
of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds.  A very desirable
connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in
time.  A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to
make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit.  To give you
another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we came
to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now,
she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred
pounds.  And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great
expense while we are here."

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,

"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
but your income is a large one."

"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose.  I do not mean to
complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will
in time be better.  The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on,
is a most serious drain.  And then I have made a little purchase within
this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where
old Gibson used to live.  The land was so very desirable for me in
every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it
my duty to buy it.  I could not have answered it to my conscience to
let it fall into any other hands.  A man must pay for his convenience;
and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money."

"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth."

"Why, I hope not that.  I might have sold it again, the next day, for
more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,
that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's
hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

Elinor could only smile.

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to
Norland.  Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)
to your mother.  Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an
undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in
consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of
linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away.  You may
guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being
rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you
may yet live to be in easy circumstances."

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but
however there is still a great deal to be done.  There is not a stone
laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
flower-garden marked out."

"Where is the green-house to be?"

"Upon the knoll behind the house.  The old walnut trees are all come
down to make room for it.  It will be a very fine object from many
parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before
it, and be exceedingly pretty.  We have cleared away all the old thorns
that grew in patches over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his
next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began
to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of
living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance
that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may
prove materially advantageous.--Her inviting you to town is certainly a
vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a
regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be
forgotten.-- She must have a great deal to leave."

"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children."

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income.  Few
people of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she
will be able to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?"

"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.
Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and
treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on
her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not
disregard.  Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can
hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."

"But she raises none in those most concerned.  Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have
little, have very little in their power.  But, my dear Elinor, what is
the matter with Marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,
and is grown quite thin.  Is she ill?"

"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks."

"I am sorry for that.  At her time of life, any thing of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever!  Hers has been a very short one!  She was
as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to
attract the man.  There was something in her style of beauty, to please
them particularly.  I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry
sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of
YOU, but so it happened to strike her.  She will be mistaken, however.
I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five
or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
YOU do not do better.  Dorsetshire!  I know very little of Dorsetshire;
but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it;
and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the
earliest and best pleased of your visitors."

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation
of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really
resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the
marriage by every possible attention.  He had just compunction enough
for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from
Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means
of atoning for his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
came in before their visit ended.  Abundance of civilities passed on
all sides.  Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood
did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood
went away delighted with both.

"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he
walked back with his sister.  "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
woman!  Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know.  And Mrs.
Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant
as her daughter.  Your sister need not have any scruple even of
visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and
very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a
man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars
were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters
were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with.  But now
I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."



CHAPTER 34


Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her
daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy
her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most
charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood.  There was a
kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually
attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid
propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the
good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings,
and to HER she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman
of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any
affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of
the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least
seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that
his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's
expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed
them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be
too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion.  The
intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from
another quarter.  Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion
on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.
and Mrs. Dashwood.  He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear
of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be
told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short
time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street.  Twice was his card found on
the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements.  Elinor
was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had
missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that,
though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to
give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited
them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house
for three months.  Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited
likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who,
always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager
civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.  They were to
meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
be of the party.  The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough to
make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to
attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect
indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in
company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was
as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon
afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing
that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable
had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as
Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it
happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as
the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a
few days before the party took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the
gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not
have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but
as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long
wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of
their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity
of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life,
than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.

On Elinor its effect was very different.  She began immediately to
determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his
mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the
first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly
knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth.  They were relieved however, not by her
own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to
be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward
certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept
away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal
when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies
to this formidable mother-in-law.

"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs
together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,
that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody
here but you, that can feel for me.--I declare I can hardly stand.
Good gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on--that is to be my mother!"--

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the
possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,
whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured
her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter
amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at
least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in
her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect.  Her
complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and
naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
the strong characters of pride and ill nature.  She was not a woman of
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the
number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not
one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- A few months
ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars'
power to distress her by it now;--and the difference of her manners to
the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble
her more, only amused her.  She could not but smile to see the
graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for
Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known
as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while
she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
pointedly slighted by both.  But while she smiled at a graciousness so
misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which
it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss
Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all
four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss
Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing
bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability
to support it.  In spite of the improvements and additions which were
making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once
been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a
loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to
infer from it;--no poverty of any kind, except of conversation,
appeared--but there, the deficiency was considerable.  John Dashwood
had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife
had still less.  But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was
very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all
laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being
agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want of
elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty
was particularly evident, for the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse
with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and
breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged
the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of
Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were
nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined
too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it
was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right
to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over
again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the
tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,
thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not
conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world
between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as
fast as she could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which
she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when
called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no
opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair
of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and
brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,
catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen
into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for
his admiration.

"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them.  I do not know whether
you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she
is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by
Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
excited, they were handed round for general inspection.  Mrs. Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look
at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady
Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother,
considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by
Miss Dashwood.

"Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at
all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they?" But then again, the dread of
having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her,
for she presently added,

"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of
painting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully
her last landscape is done!"

"Beautifully indeed!  But SHE does every thing well."

Marianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with
Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's
expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by
it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

"This is admiration of a very particular kind!--what is Miss Morton to
us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think
and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,
to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
sister's audacity.  Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than
she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they
were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable
in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister
slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here.  The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's
chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers,
said in a low, but eager, voice,

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them.  Don't let them make YOU unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her
face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears.  Every body's
attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--Colonel
Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--Mrs.
Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her
her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author
of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one
close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of
the whole shocking affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end
to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained
the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

"Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice,
as soon as he could secure his attention,-- "She has not such good
health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's
constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying
to a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal
attractions.  You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS
remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.--
Now you see it is all gone."



CHAPTER 35


Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-- She had found
in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
the families undesirable.-- She had seen enough of her pride, her
meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend
all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and
retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise
free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her OWN sake,
that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other
of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her
caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion.  Or at least, if she
did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to
Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to
have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the
civility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so
very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her
because she was NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow
her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because
her real situation was unknown.  But that it was so, had not only been
declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the
next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton
set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone,
to tell her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I
come to talk to you of my happiness.  Could anything be so flattering
as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday?  So exceeding affable
as she was!--You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;--but
the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her
behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to
me.  Now was not it so?-- You saw it all; and was not you quite struck
with it?"

"She was certainly very civil to you."

"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?-- I saw a vast deal
more.  Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,
no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and
affability!"

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to
own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go
on.--

"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing
could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was
not the case"--

"I guessed you would say so,"--replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
not, and her liking me is every thing.  You shan't talk me out of my
satisfaction.  I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
difficulties at all, to what I used to think.  Mrs. Ferrars is a
charming woman, and so is your sister.  They are both delightful women,
indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
Dashwood was!"

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you
an't well."

"I never was in better health."

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it.  I
should be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have been the greatest
comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done
without your friendship."--

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.--Poor Edward!--But
now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall
be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his
time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will
visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say
more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- They are such
charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of
her, you cannot speak too high."

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD
tell her sister.  Lucy continued.

"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took
a dislike to me.  If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for
instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of
me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I mean--if
I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave
it all up in despair.  I could not have stood it.  For where she DOES
dislike, I know it is most violent."

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by
the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that
it was so.  They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to
have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to
advance farther into it.  The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest
form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen
on them.--They were not only all three together, but were together
without the relief of any other person.  The ladies recovered
themselves first.  It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,
and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up.  She could
therefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him,
said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her
own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's
recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost
easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
improved them.  She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the
consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from
saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much
regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.
She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as
a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of
Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough
to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in
a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might
make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor
could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;
and almost every thing that WAS said, proceeded from Elinor, who was
obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health,
their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and
THAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on
the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went
to her sister.  When that was once done, however, it was time for the
raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the
drawing-room immediately.  Her pleasure in seeing him was like every
other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken.  She met
him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the
affection of a sister.

"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This
would almost make amends for every thing!"

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt.  Again they all
sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was
looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and
sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other
should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence.  Edward was the first
to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express
his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though
her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of MY
health.  Elinor is well, you see.  That must be enough for us both."

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor
to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no
very benignant expression.

"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
introduce another subject.

"Not at all.  I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.
The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and
thank Heaven! you are what you always were!"

She paused--no one spoke.

"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take
care of us in our return to Barton.  In a week or two, I suppose, we
shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to
accept the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
himself.  But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace
it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and
soon talked of something else.

"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday!  So dull, so
wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which
cannot be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her
being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in
private.

"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come?"

"I was engaged elsewhere."

"Engaged!  But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no
mind to keep them, little as well as great."

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the
sting; for she calmly replied,

"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street.  And I really believe
he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous
in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make
against his interest or pleasure.  He is the most fearful of giving
pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,
of any body I ever saw.  Edward, it is so, and I will say it.  What!
are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must be no friend of
mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to
my open commendation."

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened
to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon
got up to go away.

"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be."

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy
could not stay much longer.  But even this encouragement failed, for he
would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.

"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving them.
"Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to Edward!"

"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known
to him of any.  It is but natural that he should like to see her as
well as ourselves."

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this
is a kind of talking which I cannot bear.  If you only hope to have
your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you
ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it.  I
cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really
wanted."

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give
no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the
consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
obliged to submit to it.  All that she could hope, was that Edward
would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing
Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of
the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every
reason to expect.



CHAPTER 36


Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the
world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a
son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least
to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a
like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to
be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as
soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening;
and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons,
spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort
they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs.
Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes
of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and
the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little
valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and
by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on
THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.
Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to
Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.  Because they
neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them
good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them
satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical;
but THAT did not signify.  It was censure in common use, and easily
given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy.  It checked the
idleness of one, and the business of the other.  Lady Middleton was
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was
proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would
despise her for offering.  Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the
three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to
it entirely.  Would either of them only have given her a full and
minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby,
she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the
best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out
expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt
a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was
produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in
the latter.  An effort even yet lighter might have made her their
friend.  Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor!  But so
little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that
if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without
hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind
enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
woman so long.  She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at
her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,
of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at
different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his
father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like
every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to
acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood.  It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not
apparently likely to produce evil to her.  But while the imaginations
of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness
must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.  In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small
musical party at her house.  The consequence of which was, that Mrs.
John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what
was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing
to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not
expect to go out with her a second time?  The power of disappointing
them, it was true, must always be hers.  But that was not enough; for
when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be
wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from
them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of
their being together, when it was finished.  Nothing escaped HER minute
observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every
thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of
Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether
with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes
of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week,
and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.  The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she
dared to say she would make a great many conquests."

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of
her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable.  The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
room.  In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases
at Gray's.  She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and
speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out
his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy.  Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations!  For then his
brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun.  But while she
wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
the modesty and worth of the other.  Why they WERE different, Robert
exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
GAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often
tell my mother, when she is grieving about it.  'My dear Madam,' I
always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy.  The evil is now
irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing.  Why would you
be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to
place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his
life?  If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,
instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been
prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and
my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not
think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.

"You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a
cottage near Dawlish."

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living
near Dawlish.  He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their
species of house.

"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there
is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them.  And I protest,
if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one
myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself
down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy.  I
advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage.  My friend
Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,
and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's.  I was to decide
on the best of them.  'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing
them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means
build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.

"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a
cottage; but this is all a mistake.  I was last month at my friend
Elliott's, near Dartford.  Lady Elliott wished to give a dance.  'But
how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is
to be managed.  There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten
couple, and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there
could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not
be uneasy.  The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;
card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open
for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
saloon.'  Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought.  We measured the
dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the
affair was arranged precisely after my plan.  So that, in fact, you
see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as
well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling."

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the
compliment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,
his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought
struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for
her approbation, when they got home.  The consideration of Mrs.
Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had
suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,
while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home.  The expense would
be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an
attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his
father.  Fanny was startled at the proposal.

"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady
Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it.  You know I am always ready to pay them any
attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.  But
they are Lady Middleton's visitors.  How can I ask them away from her?"

Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection.  "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit
Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the
same number of days to such near relations."

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,

"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a
few days with us.  They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and
I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well
by Edward.  We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the
Miss Steeles may not be in town any more.  I am sure you will like
them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so
does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"

Mr. Dashwood was convinced.  He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as
THEIR visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and
her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
Middleton could spare them.  This was enough to make Lucy really and
reasonably happy.  Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views!  Such
an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all
things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the
most gratifying to her feelings!  It was an advantage that could not be
too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the
visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,
was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'
time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed
on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will
towards her arose from something more than merely malice against
herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing
that Lucy wished.  Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts
of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.  Mrs.
Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her
life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made
by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know
whether she should ever be able to part with them.





[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume II ended.]




CHAPTER 37


Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt
it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,
contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from
that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the
Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in
Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to
Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by
herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to
hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,
began directly to justify it, by saying,

"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"

"No, ma'am.  What is it?"

"Something so strange!  But you shall hear it all.-- When I got to Mr.
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child.  She was
sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is
nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same.
But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;
and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he
stepped over directly, and as soon as ever Mama, he said
just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and
then Charlotte was easy.  And so, just as he was going away again, it
came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of
it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news.  So upon
that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know
something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any
unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to
their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I
believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will
do very well.'"

"What! is Fanny ill?"

"That is exactly what I said, my dear.  'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.
Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of
the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this.  Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it
turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.
Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my
cousin Lucy!--There's for you, my dear!--And not a creature knowing a
syllable of the matter, except Nancy!--Could you have believed such a
thing possible?-- There is no great wonder in their liking one another;
but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody
suspect it!--THAT is strange!--I never happened to see them together,
or I am sure I should have found it out directly.  Well, and so this
was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor
your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;--till this very
morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no
conjurer, popt it all out.  'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are
all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;'
and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her
carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been
saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to
make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget
who.  So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.
She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as
reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room
down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the
country.  So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for
Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.
Poor soul!  I pity HER.  And I must say, I think she was used very
hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into
a fainting fit.  Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly;
and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know
what to do.  Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute
longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS
knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up
their clothes.  THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so
frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found
the house in all this uproar.  The carriage was at the door ready to
take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came
off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and
Nancy, she was almost as bad.  I declare, I have no patience with your
sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of
her.  Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of
it!  To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous
fond of her, as well he may.  I should not wonder, if he was to be in
the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same.  He and I
had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is
gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs.
Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins
left the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in hysterics too;
and so she may, for what I care.  I have no pity for either of them.  I
have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and
greatness.  There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should
not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her
son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than
any body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs.
Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as
good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight.  Lord!
how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little
bigger--with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to
a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit
them exactly."

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect
her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such
observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest
in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the
case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy
above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able
to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,
as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one
concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really
was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and
Lucy.  What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a
doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to
know how Edward would conduct himself.  For HIM she felt much
compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to
procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the
necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion.  No time was to be
lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,
and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,
without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any
resentment against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one.--She was going to remove what she
really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such
particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good
opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,
which to HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment
over again.  But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to
be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the
self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's
engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.
Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given
without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor
impetuous grief.--THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne
listened with horror, and cried excessively.  Elinor was to be the
comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and
all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure
of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but
of imprudence, was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither.  Edward seemed
a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD
loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself!  As for
Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely
incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded
at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of
Edward for her.  She would not even admit it to have been natural; and
Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only
could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact
of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--Marianne's
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of
detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her
distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment.  The first
question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,--

"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?"

"I have known it these four months.  When Lucy first came to Barton
Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her
lips could not utter.  After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--

"Four months!--Have you known of this four months?"

Elinor confirmed it.

"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
heart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!"--

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!"

"Four months!"--cried Marianne again.--"So calm!--so cheerful!--how
have you been supported?"--

"By feeling that I was doing my duty.--My promise to Lucy, obliged me
to be secret.  I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of
the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in
them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to
satisfy."

Marianne seemed much struck.

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added
Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;--but without betraying
my trust, I never could have convinced you."

"Four months!--and yet you loved him!"--

"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was
dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.
Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion.  I would not have
you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer
materially myself.  I have many things to support me.  I am not
conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my
own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.
I acquit Edward of essential misconduct.  I wish him very happy; and I
am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour
some regret, in the end he must become so.  Lucy does not want sense,
and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--And
after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a
single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's
happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not
meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- Edward
will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and
understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to
forget that he ever thought another superior to HER."--

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what
is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be
wondered at.--They are brought more within my comprehension."

"I understand you.--You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.--For
four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without
being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it
would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to
you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- It was told
me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose
prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,
with triumph.-- This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to
oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most
deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her
hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- I have known
myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one
circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--Nothing
has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to
me.-- I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and
the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an
attachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- And all this has been
going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only
unhappiness.-- If you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you
may suppose that I have suffered NOW.  The composure of mind with which
I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the
consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of
constant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of
themselves;--they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- No,
Marianne.--THEN, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing
could have kept me entirely--not even what I owed to my dearest
friends--from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy."--

Marianne was quite subdued.--

"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.--How
barbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who
have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only
suffering for me!--Is this my gratitude?--Is this the only return I can
make you?--Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying
to do it away."

The tenderest caresses followed this confession.  In such a frame of
mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her
whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged
never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of
bitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of
dislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring
them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- These
were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had injured,
no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--She
attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an
unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard
three times to say, "Yes, ma'am."--She listened to her praise of Lucy
with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings
talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her
throat.--Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel
equal to any thing herself.

The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their
brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
affair, and bring them news of his wife.

"You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as
he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under
our roof yesterday."

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.

"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully.  Mrs. Ferrars
too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but I
will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us
quite overcome.  Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday.  But I
would not alarm you too much.  Donavan says there is nothing materially
to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution
equal to any thing.  She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an
angel!  She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one
cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such
ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence
had been placed!  It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart,
that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she
thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved
girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished
very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your
kind friend there, was attending her daughter.  And now to be so
rewarded!  'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her
affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'"

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is
not to be described.  While she with the truest affection had been
planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that
he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a
suspicion could never have entered her head!  If she suspected ANY
prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter.  'THERE, to
be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite
in an agony.  We consulted together, however, as to what should be
done, and at last she determined to send for Edward.  He came.  But I
am sorry to relate what ensued.  All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to
make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well
suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail.
Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded.  I never thought Edward
so stubborn, so unfeeling before.  His mother explained to him her
liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she
would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax,
brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew
desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he
still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain
penury that must attend the match.  His own two thousand pounds she
protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far
would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he
were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she
would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands
together, and cried, "Gracious God!  can this be possible!"

"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy
which could resist such arguments as these.  Your exclamation is very
natural."

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
forbore.

"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain.  Edward said
very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.
Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement.  He would
stand to it, cost him what it might."

"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be
silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.
Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a
rascal.  I have some little concern in the business, as well as
yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a
better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good
husband."

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open
to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially
anybody of good fortune.  He therefore replied, without any resentment,

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,
madam.  Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,
but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her
uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune
as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In
short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom
you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings.  We all wish her extremely happy;
and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every
conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt.  It has
been dignified and liberal.  Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear
it will be a bad one."

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung
for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a
woman who could not reward him.

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?"

"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- Edward is
dismissed for ever from his mother's notice.  He left her house
yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do
not know; for WE of course can make no inquiry."

"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?"

"What, indeed, ma'am!  It is a melancholy consideration.  Born to the
prospect of such affluence!  I cannot conceive a situation more
deplorable.  The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on
it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for
his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two
thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand
pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition.  We must
all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our
power to assist him."

"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very
welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I
could see him.  It is not fit that he should be living about at his own
charge now, at lodgings and taverns."

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she
could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood,
"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been
in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing.  But as it
is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him.  And there is one
thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his
mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle
THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on
proper conditions.  I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking
over the business."

"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is HER revenge.  Everybody has a way
of their own.  But I don't think mine would be, to make one son
independent, because another had plagued me."

Marianne got up and walked about the room.

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John,
"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might
have been his own?  Poor Edward!  I feel for him sincerely."

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his
visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really
believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and
that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;
leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present
occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the
Dashwoods', and Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and
as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in
Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the
party.



CHAPTER 38


Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit.  THEY only knew how
little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the
consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain
to him in the loss of friends and fortune.  Elinor gloried in his
integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his
punishment.  But though confidence between them was, by this public
discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which
either of them were fond of dwelling when alone.  Elinor avoided it
upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the
too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's
continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and
Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic
which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the
comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had
hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never
exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,
without the hope of amendment.  Her mind was so much weakened that she
still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only
dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs
in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings.  But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had
enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after
more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and
inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the
hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them
within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,
though it was only the second week in March.  Mrs. Jennings and Elinor
were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were
again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather
to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing
with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was
herself left to quiet reflection.  She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,
nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by
any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her.  But at last
she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,
though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting
them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of
Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.
Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,

"Get it all out of her, my dear.  She will tell you any thing if you
ask.  You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,
that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learnt.

"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by
the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world."  And
then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about
it.  Is she angry?"

"Not at all, I believe, with you."

"That is a good thing.  And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?"

"I cannot suppose it possible that she should be."

"I am monstrous glad of it.  Good gracious!  I have had such a time of
it!  I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life.  She vowed at first
she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me
again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are
as good friends as ever.  Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put
in the feather last night.  There now, YOU are going to laugh at me
too.  But why should not I wear pink ribbons?  I do not care if it IS
the Doctor's favourite colour.  I am sure, for my part, I should never
have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not
happened to say so.  My cousins have been so plaguing me!  I declare
sometimes I do not know which way to look before them."

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,
and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to
the first.

"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what
they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it
is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad.  Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
it down for certain."

"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"
said Elinor.

"Oh, did not you?  But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than
one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty
thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at
all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself.  And besides that, my cousin
Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr.
Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three
days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart
Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's
Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and
Saturday, and did not know what was become of him.  Once Lucy thought
to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.  However this
morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came
out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been
talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before
them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he
have.  And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as
he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse,
and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed
about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better
of it.  And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it
seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it
would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must
be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no
hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some
thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live
upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so
he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the
matter directly, and leave him shift for himself.  I heard him say all
this as plain as could possibly be.  And it was entirely for HER sake,
and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon
his own.  I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired
of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it.  But,
to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she
told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know,
and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you
know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world
to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so
ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know,
or something of the kind.  So then he was monstrous happy, and talked
on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take
orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.
And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from
below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take
one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room
and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did
not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of
silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor;
"you were all in the same room together, were not you?"

"No, indeed, not us.  La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by?  Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know
better than that.  (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in
the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door."

"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door?  I am sorry I did not know it
before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known
yourself.  How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"

"Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT.  I only stood at the door, and heard
what I could.  And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me;
for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets
together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a
chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be
kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is
lodging at No. --, Pall Mall.  What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send
us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.  And
for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us
for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,
nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there
for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he
will be ordained.  I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious!
(giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will
say, when they hear of it.  They will tell me I should write to the
Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living.  I know they will;
but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La!' I
shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing?  I
write to the Doctor, indeed!'"

"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
You have got your answer ready."

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of
her own party made another more necessary.

"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons.  I had a vast deal more to say to
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer.  I assure you
they are very genteel people.  He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
they keep their own coach.  I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
with her for as long a time as she likes.  I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout.  Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was
not here.  Remember me kindly to her.  La! if you have not got your
spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay
her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was
claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of
knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though
she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and
foreplanned in her own mind.  Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly
determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely
uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended,
exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she
confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as
she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would
choose to have known.  The continuance of their engagement, and the
means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her
communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
natural remark.

"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will
end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them
towards furnishing their house.  Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I
talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW."

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself.  It was as follows:

                    "Bartlett's Building, March.

     "I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the
     liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your
     friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such
     a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after
     all the troubles we have went through lately,
     therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed
     to say that, thank God! though we have suffered
     dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy
     as we must always be in one another's love.  We have
     had great trials, and great persecutions, but
     however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge
     many friends, yourself not the least among them,
     whose great kindness I shall always thankfully
     remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of
     it.  I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise
     dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with
     him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our
     parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my
     duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,
     and would have parted for ever on the spot, would
     he consent to it; but he said it should never be,
     he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could
     have my affections; our prospects are not very
     bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for
     the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should
     it ever be in your power to recommend him to any
     body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you
     will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too,
     trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John,
     or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to
     assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what
     she did, but she did it for the best, so I say
     nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much
     trouble to give us a call, should she come this way
     any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my
     cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds
     me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully
     and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John,
     and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you
     chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,

                                      "I am, &c."

As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to
be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.
Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and
praise.

"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite
proper to let him be off if he would.  That was just like Lucy.--Poor
soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me
dear Mrs. Jennings, you see.  She is a good-hearted girl as ever
lived.--Very well upon my word.  That sentence is very prettily turned.
Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough.  How attentive she is, to
think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me.  It is as
pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great
credit."



CHAPTER 39


The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,
and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.  She sighed
for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if
any place could give her ease, Barton must do it.  Elinor was hardly
less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent
on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the
difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought
to acknowledge.  She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts
towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to
their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her
good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from
home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more
eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about
the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both
her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with
them.  This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy
of Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by
Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his
manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy,
induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was
not very auspicious.

"Cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation.  "No, I cannot go to
Cleveland."--

"You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it
is not in the neighbourhood of..."

"But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There,
where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to
go there."

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on
others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the
time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to
see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan
could do, and perhaps without any greater delay.  From Cleveland, which
was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not
beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant
might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no
occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be
at home in little more than three weeks' time.  As Marianne's affection
for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,
over the imaginary evils she had started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she
pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her
design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every
thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;--and
Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that
were yet to divide her from Barton.

"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
Dashwoods;"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on
her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved
upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I
come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two
cats."

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their
future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give
himself an escape from it;--and if so, she had soon afterwards good
reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the
window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she
was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of
particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.
The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her
observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by
the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep
herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with
agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her
employment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the
interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words
of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be
apologising for the badness of his house.  This set the matter beyond a
doubt.  She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;
but supposed it to be the proper etiquette.  What Elinor said in reply
she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that
she did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings
commended her in her heart for being so honest.  They then talked on
for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another
lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the
Colonel's calm voice,--

"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her
desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.

"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older."

This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or
mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the
conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings
very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to
feel what she said,

"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you."

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that
after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave
of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away
without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could
have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

"I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your
friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand
the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering
in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been
rightly informed?--Is it so?--"

Elinor told him that it was.

"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great
feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long
attached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what
she may be doing--what she may drive her son to.  I have seen Mr.
Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with
him.  He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted
in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his
own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.  I understand
that he intends to take orders.  Will you be so good as to tell him
that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this
day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT,
perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be
nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more  valuable.-- It
is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not
make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of
improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very
comfortable income.  Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting
it to him, will be very great.  Pray assure him of it."

Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been
greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as
hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and
SHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her
emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different
cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might
have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,
and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together
prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly
expressed.  She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of
Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew
them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with
pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office
to another.  But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no
one could so well perform it as himself.  It was an office in short,
from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an
obligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared
herself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining
it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her
means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.
Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard
his address from Miss Steele.  She could undertake therefore to inform
him of it, in the course of the day.  After this had been settled,
Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so
respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he
mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an
evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very
light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

"The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
income."

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr.
Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for
he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such
an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle
on--and he said so.

"This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable
as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.  I am sorry to say that
my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.
If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve
him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do,
if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I
could be at present.  What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all,
since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal,
his only object of happiness.  His marriage must still be a distant
good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--"

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the
delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what
really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at
the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may
perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less
properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.



CHAPTER 40


"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon
as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has
been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of
hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business.
And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you
joy of it with all my heart."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor.  "It is a matter of great joy to me;
and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly.  There are
not many men who would act as he has done.  Few people who have so
compassionate a heart!  I never was more astonished in my life."

"Lord! my dear, you are very modest.  I an't the least astonished at it
in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more
likely to happen."

"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;
but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very
soon occur."

"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings--"Oh! as to that, when a man has
once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon
find an opportunity.  Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and
again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I
shall soon know where to look for them."

"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a
faint smile.

"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed.  And as to the house being a bad one,
I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as
ever I saw."

"He spoke of its being out of repair."

"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?--who should do
it but himself?"

They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the
carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to
go, said,--

"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.
But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be
quite alone.  I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind
is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must
long to tell your sister all about it."

Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.

"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention
it at present to any body else."

"Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed.  "Then you
would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as
Holborn to-day."

"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please.  One day's delay will not be
very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought
not to be mentioned to any body else.  I shall do THAT directly.  It is
of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of
course have much to do relative to his ordination."

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly.  Why Mr.
Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could
not immediately comprehend.  A few moments' reflection, however,
produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;--

"Oh, ho!--I understand you.  Mr. Ferrars is to be the man.  Well, so
much the better for him.  Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in
readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between
you.  But, my dear, is not this rather out of character?  Should not
the Colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person."

Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's
speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore
only replied to its conclusion.

"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to
announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."

"And so YOU are forced to do it.  Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy!
However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.)  You
know your own concerns best.  So goodby, my dear.  I have not heard of
any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed."

And away she went; but returning again in a moment,

"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear.  I should be
very glad to get her so good a mistress.  But whether she would do for
a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell.  She is an excellent housemaid,
and works very well at her needle.  However, you will think of all that
at your leisure."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,
and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.

How she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to
Edward, was now all her concern.  The particular circumstances between
them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have
been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too
much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen
in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he
came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not
returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss
Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular
business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her
perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself
properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the
information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her
upon this greatest exertion of all.  Her astonishment and confusion
were very great on his so sudden appearance.  She had not seen him
before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his
knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of
what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her
feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes.  He too was much
distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of
embarrassment.--Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on
first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to
be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could
say any thing, after taking a chair.

"Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at
least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded on
you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been
extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;
especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that
I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again.  I go to Oxford
tomorrow."

"You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself,
and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as
possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been
able to give them in person.  Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she
said.  I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on
the point of communicating by paper.  I am charged with a most
agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)
Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to
say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure
in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes
it were more valuable.  Allow me to congratulate you on having so
respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the
living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more considerable,
and such as might better enable you to--as might be more than a
temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might establish
all your views of happiness."

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected
that any one else should say for him.  He LOOKED all the astonishment
which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of
exciting; but he said only these two words,

"Colonel Brandon!"

"Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the
worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern
for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which the
unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern which I
am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and
likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and
his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion."

"Colonel Brandon give ME a living!--Can it be possible?"

"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find
friendship any where."

"No," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in YOU;
for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it
all.--I feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know,
I am no orator."

"You are very much mistaken.  I do assure you that you owe it entirely,
at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's
discernment of it.  I have had no hand in it.  I did not even know,
till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it
ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.
As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he
HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe
nothing to my solicitation."

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but
she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of
Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably
contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently
entered it.  For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had
ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,

"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.  I have
always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him
highly.  He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly
the gentleman."

"Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on farther
acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be
such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost
close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he
SHOULD be all this."

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her
a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he
might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the
mansion-house much greater.

"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon
afterwards, rising from his chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not
allow me to give YOU; to assure him that he has made me a very--an
exceedingly happy man."

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very
earnest assurance on HER side of her unceasing good wishes for his
happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on HIS,
with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of
expressing it.

"When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him
out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy."

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the
past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of
Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.

When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people
whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a
great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important
secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to
it again as soon as Elinor appeared.

"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man.  Did not I
do right?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find
him very unwilling to accept your proposal?"

"No, ma'am; THAT was not very likely."

"Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon
that."

"Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I
can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation
necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his
ordination."

"Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly
you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord
bless me!--I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience!--And though
one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think
it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.  Sure
somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in
orders already."

"My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of?-- Why,
Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"Lord bless you, my dear!--Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the
Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.
Ferrars!"

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation
immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for
the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.
Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still
without forfeiting her expectation of the first.

"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first
ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely MAY
be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a
house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor,
and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!--and to
you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!-- It seems quite
ridiculous.  But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some
thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy
goes to it."

"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's
being enough to allow them to marry."

"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year
himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less.  Take my word
for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford
Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't
there."

Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not
waiting for any thing more.



CHAPTER 41


Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with
his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he
reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.
Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her
congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in
her life.

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and
she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their
being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.
So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor
that credit which Edward WOULD give her, that she spoke of her
friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to
own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion
for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would
ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in
the world for those she really valued.  As for Colonel Brandon, she was
not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly
anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;
anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely
resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could,
of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his
wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel
it necessary to pay her a visit.--This was an obligation, however,
which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the
assistance of any encouragement from her companions.  Marianne, not
contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to
prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her
carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.
John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after
the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking
Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company
again.  The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a
visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run
the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had
so much reason to dislike.

Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the
house, her husband accidentally came out.  He expressed great pleasure
in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in
Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see
her, invited her to come in.

They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.--Nobody was there.

"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the
world to seeing YOU.-- Very far from it, indeed.  NOW especially there
cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great
favourites.--Why would not Marianne come?"--

Elinor made what excuse she could for her.

"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal
to say to you.  This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has
he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was
coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it."

"It is perfectly true.--Colonel Brandon has given the living of
Delaford to Edward."

"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no
connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a
price!--what was the value of this?"

"About two hundred a year."

"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that
value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and
likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen
hundred pounds.  And how came he not to have settled that matter before
this person's death?--NOW indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a
man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so improvident
in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I am convinced
that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human
character.  I suppose, however--on recollection--that the case may
probably be THIS.  Edward is only to hold the living till the person to
whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to
take it.--Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it."

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that
she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel
Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which
it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.

"It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she
said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?"

"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky
man.--You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I
have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like
to hear it much talked of."

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth
to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly
impoverished.

"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so
important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe
it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may
be.-- When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all."

"But why should such precaution be used?--Though it is not to be
supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in
knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for THAT must be
quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she
supposed to feel at all?--She has done with her son, she cast him off
for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast
him off likewise.  Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined
liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she cannot
be interested in any thing that befalls him.-- She would not be so weak
as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of
a parent!"

"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is
founded on ignorance of human nature.  When Edward's unhappy match
takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had
never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may
accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as
possible.  Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son."

"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory
by THIS time."

"You wrong her exceedingly.  Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most
affectionate mothers in the world."

Elinor was silent.

"We think NOW,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of ROBERT'S
marrying Miss Morton."

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's
tone, calmly replied,

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."

"Choice!--how do you mean?"

"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be
the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert."

"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all
intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any
thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that
one is superior to the other."

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.--His
reflections ended thus.

"Of ONE thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in
an awful whisper,--"I may assure you;--and I WILL do it, because I know
it must gratify you.  I have good reason to think--indeed I have it
from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it
would be very wrong to say any thing about it--but I have it from the
very best authority--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say
it herself--but her daughter DID, and I have it from her--That in
short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a certain
connection--you understand me--it would have been far preferable to
her, it would not have given her half the vexation that THIS does.  I
was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that
light--a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.  'It would
have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and
she would be glad to compound NOW for nothing worse.' But however, all
that is quite out of the question--not to be thought of or
mentioned--as to any attachment you know--it never could be--all that
is gone by.  But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I
knew how much it must please you.  Not that you have any reason to
regret, my dear Elinor.  There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly
well--quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered.  Has
Colonel Brandon been with you lately?"

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was
therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply
herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her
brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars.  After a few moments'
chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her
sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was
left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay
unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so
unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice
of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of
life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most
unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to
speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very
inquisitive on the subject.  Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as
she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very
different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM.  He laughed
most immoderately.  The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living
in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to
that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a
white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith
and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the
conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed
on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited.  It was a
look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,
and gave no intelligence to him.  He was recalled from wit to wisdom,
not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.

"We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the
affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety
of the moment--"but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business.  Poor
Edward!  he is ruined for ever.  I am extremely sorry for it--for I
know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow
perhaps, as any in the world.  You must not judge of him, Miss
Dashwood, from YOUR slight acquaintance.--Poor Edward!--His manners are
certainly not the happiest in nature.--But we are not all born, you
know, with the same powers,--the same address.-- Poor fellow!--to see
him in a circle of strangers!--to be sure it was pitiable enough!--but
upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom;
and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as
when it all burst forth.  I could not believe it.-- My mother was the
first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act
with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know
what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must
say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see him
again.' That was what I said immediately.-- I was most uncommonly
shocked, indeed!--Poor Edward!--he has done for himself
completely--shut himself out for ever from all decent society!--but, as
I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it;
from his style of education, it was always to be expected.  My poor
mother was half frantic."

"Have you ever seen the lady?"

"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in
for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her.  The merest awkward
country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.--
I remember her perfectly.  Just the kind of girl I should suppose
likely to captivate poor Edward.  I offered immediately, as soon as my
mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade
him from the match; but it was too late THEN, I found, to do any thing,
for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it
till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you
know, to interfere.  But had I been informed of it a few hours
earlier--I think it is most probable--that something might have been
hit on.  I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very
strong light.  'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you
are doing.  You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a
one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help
thinking, in short, that means might have been found.  But now it is
all too late.  He must be starved, you know;--that is certain;
absolutely starved."

He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance
of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject.  But though SHE never
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on
her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she
entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.  She
even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her
sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of
them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the
room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every
thing that was most affectionate and graceful.



CHAPTER 42


One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to
Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and
sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland
whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was
the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,
assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should
come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the
country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send
her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now least
chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as
her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when
they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective
homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road.  For the convenience of
Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their
journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel
Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as
she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid
adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those
hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished
for ever, without great pain.  Nor could she leave the place in which
Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which
SHE could have no share, without shedding many tears.

Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left
no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be
divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the
persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her
sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked
forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might
do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.

Their journey was safely performed.  The second day brought them into
the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was
it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of
the third they drove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
lawn.  It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably
extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance,
it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth
gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was
dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of
the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them
altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the
offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the
consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty
from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its
walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child
to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the
winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a
distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering
over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on
the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their
summits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears
of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit
to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of
wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she
resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained
with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,
on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of
the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen
garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the
gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the
green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,
and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of
Charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the
disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or
being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young
brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay
at Cleveland.  With great surprise therefore, did she find herself
prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.  She had
depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over
the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred
her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE could not fancy dry
or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away.  Mrs. Palmer
had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the
friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,
and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther
than Reading that night.  Elinor, however little concerned in it,
joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding
her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by
the family in general, soon procured herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly
good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.  The
openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of
recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms
of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was
engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was
not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording
a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had
reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so
much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew
not what to expect to find him in his own family.  She found him,
however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,
and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him
very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from
being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much
superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.
Jennings and Charlotte.  For the rest of his character and habits, they
were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all
unusual in his sex and time of life.  He was nice in his eating,
uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight
it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been
devoted to business.  She liked him, however, upon the whole, much
better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she
could like him no more;--not sorry to be driven by the observation of
his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with
complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple
taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire
lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of
Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a
great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,
and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.--His
behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his
open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his
readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,
might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,
and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the
first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it
herself.  But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her
head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help
believing herself the nicest observer of the two;--she watched his
eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour;--and while his
looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and
throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,
entirely escaped the latter lady's observation;--SHE could discover in
them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her
being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all
over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,
where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the
trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,
had--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet
shoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a
day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing
ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all
declined.  Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a
cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely;
and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went
to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.



CHAPTER 43


Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry
replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments.  But a day spent in sitting shivering
over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or
in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of
her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more
indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's
composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against
Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night,
trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,
confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her
bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending
for the Palmers' apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the
word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer,
on her baby's account.  Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the
first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now
looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's
fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with
her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as
idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be
withstood.  Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his
nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a
few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at
her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was
almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.  Mrs. Jennings,
however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her,
declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as
Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate,
desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better
experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for
on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended
the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their
mother by surprise on the following forenoon.  The little she said was
all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to
raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed
herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no
amendment, did not appear worse.  Their party was now farther reduced;
for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity
and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away
by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his
promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel
Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going
likewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she
thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his
stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to
play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her
sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was
gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not
long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was
warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,
in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss
Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.  It
gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it
gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same.  Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and
Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others
was by no means so cheerful.  Mrs. Jennings had determined very early
in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel
Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's
forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.  He
tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of
the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day
in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the
admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his
mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of
both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared
his patient materially better.  Her pulse was much stronger, and every
symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.  Elinor, confirmed
in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her
letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her
friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them
at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able
to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before.  Her sister, however, still sanguine, was
willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of
having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the
cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a
slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects.  Her
sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a
considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it.  Mrs. Jennings,
knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to
bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating
herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with
Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her
sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of
posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint
which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful
a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in
the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,--

"Is mama coming?--"

"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is
long.  It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."

"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner.  "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.  It was lower and
quicker than ever!  and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her
alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly
for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the
latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its
performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by
her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he
was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

It was no time for hesitation.  Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him.  Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to
attempt the removal of:--he listened to them in silent despondence;--but
her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that
seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind,
he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him
with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his
servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses
directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such
a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose
friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons
COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance,
would lessen it.

HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost
despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might
look for his return.  Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.  The
horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon
only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken
too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.  It was then about
twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for
the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night.  It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.  Hour after
hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and
in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared.  Her
apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former
security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow
Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what
her mistress had always thought.

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her
mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the
heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with
so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,
fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had
been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother
arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could
not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after
five o'clock--arrived.  His opinion, however, made some little amends
for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and
unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to
be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment
must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was
communicated to Elinor.  He promised to call again in the course of
three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious
attendant more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to
their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no
doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her
conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the
comfort of hope.  Her heart was really grieved.  The rapid decay, the
early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck
a less interested person with concern.  On Mrs. Jennings's compassion
she had other claims.  She had been for three months her companion, was
still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured,
and long unhappy.  The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to
herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;--but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.  His
medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more
quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor.  Elinor, catching
all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in
further advice.  But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something
more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as
confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging
assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss
Dashwood.  She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she
was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,
scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from
one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits
oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who
scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the
many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment
had brought on.  Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it
gave fresh misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her
friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her
sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and
again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under
exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to
communicate her hopes.  Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination,
to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
indulging a thought of its continuance;--and Elinor, conning over every
injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.  But it was
too late.  Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious
flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what.
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
Others even arose to confirm it.  Her breath, her skin, her lips, all
flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes
on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.  Anxiety and hope now
oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity
till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances,
his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his
expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger.  Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the
partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their
late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,
with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the
probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful.  Her joy was of a different kind, and led
to any thing rather than to gaiety.  Marianne restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;--but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,
no smiles.  All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and
strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the
whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her
enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every
look and every breath.  The possibility of a relapse would of course,
in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was--but when she
saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of
recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,
steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every
doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back.  At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her
mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must
now be travelling towards them.  The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely
less an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which
yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea.  Of breakfast she had been
kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating
much;--and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of
content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.  Mrs. Jennings
would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before
her mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but
Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment
about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an
unnecessary instant.  Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs
into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,
left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her
own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy.  The wind roared round the house, and
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,
regarded it not.  Marianne slept through every blast; and the
travellers--they had a rich reward in store, for every present
inconvenience.

The clock struck eight.  Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the
house; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the
ALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into
the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be
satisfied of the truth.  She instantly saw that her ears had not
deceived her.  The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in
view.  By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be
drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor
mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at
that moment.  The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the
carriage stopt at the door--of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her
despair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was
impossible to be calm.  All that remained to be done was to be speedy;
and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid
with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house.  She rushed to the
drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.



CHAPTER 44


Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed
the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room,
and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by
his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than
supplication,

"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to
stay."

"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall NOT stay.  Your business
cannot be with ME.  The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that
Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door.  My business is with you, and only you."

"With me!"--in the utmost amazement--"well, sir,--be quick--and if you
can--less violent."

"Sit down, and I will be both."

She hesitated; she knew not what to do.  The possibility of Colonel
Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.  But she had
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was
engaged.  After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that
prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best
promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.  He
took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by
either.

"Pray be quick, sir,"--said Elinor, impatiently;--"I have no time to
spare."

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.

"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out
of danger.  I heard it from the servant.  God be praised!--But is it
true? is it really true?"

Elinor would not speak.  He repeated the inquiry with yet greater
eagerness.

"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"

"We hope she is."

He rose up, and walked across the room.

"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I AM here,"--speaking
with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--"what does it
signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time,
perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood for
gaiety.-- Tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his
cheeks--"do you think me most a knave or a fool?"

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.  She began to
think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and
of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this
impression she immediately rose, saying,

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not
at leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may be
with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my cold
beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."

"At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand
what he would be at.

"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten
minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nuncheon at Marlborough."

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might
bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she
said, after a moment's recollection,

"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after what
has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon
my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that you
mean by it?"--

"I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hate me
one degree less than you do NOW.  I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma--from your sister."

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

"Upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, with a warmth which brought all
the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made
her think him sincere.

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already,--for Marianne DOES--she
has LONG forgiven you."

"Has she?"--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- "Then she has forgiven
me before she ought to have done it.  But she shall forgive me again,
and on more reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to me?"

Elinor bowed her assent.

"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
thoughtfulness on his own,--"how YOU may have accounted for my
behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have
imputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is
worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.  When I first
became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view
in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged
to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but
please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a
kind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE
was, that my heart should have been so insensible!  But at first I must
confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.  Careless of her happiness,
thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had
always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every
means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design
of returning her affection."

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
to listen any longer.  Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by
any thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the
subject."

"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself.  Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune.  To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not
a thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty--which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss
Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner,
trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--But
one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish
vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I
did not THEN know what it was to love.  But have I ever known it?--Well
may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my
feelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could I have
sacrificed hers?-- But I have done it.  To avoid a comparative poverty,
which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its
horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that
could make it a blessing."

"You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at
one time attached to her?"

"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such
tenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could have done it?--Yes, I
found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the
happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my
intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.  Even
THEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I
allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment
of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my
circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.  I will not reason here--nor
will I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than
absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already
bound.  The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with
great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself
contemptible and wretched for ever.  At last, however, my resolution
was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone,
to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly
assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to
display.  But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that
were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her
in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin
all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.  A discovery took
place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"Mrs. Smith had somehow or
other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest
it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but I
need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an
heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you
have probably heard the whole story long ago."

"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart
anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all.  And how you
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I
confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one?  I acknowledge that her situation and her
character ought to have been respected by me.  I do not mean to justify
myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have
nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,
and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint.  If the violence of
her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean,
however, to defend myself.  Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness
which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.  I
wish--I heartily wish it had never been.  But I have injured more than
herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I say
it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! how
infinitely superior!"--

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say
it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.  Do
not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of
understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in
Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was
reduced to the extremest indigence."

"But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it," he warmly replied; "I did not
recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
might have told her how to find it out."

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
guessed.  The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her
ignorance of the world--every thing was against me.  The matter itself
I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.  She was
previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in
general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,
the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my
present visit.  In short, it ended in a total breach.  By one measure I
might have saved myself.  In the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.  That could
not be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was
spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.  The
struggle was great--but it ended too soon.  My affection for Marianne,
my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient
to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false
ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to
feel, and expensive society had increased.  I had reason to believe
myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I
persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained
for me to do.  A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave
Devonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some
apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.  But
whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a
point of long debate.  To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and
I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my
resolution.  In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity,
as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable,
and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again."

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a note
would have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call?"

"It was necessary to my own pride.  I could not bear to leave the
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the
neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between
Mrs. Smith and myself--and I resolved therefore on calling at the
cottage, in my way to Honiton.  The sight of your dear sister, however,
was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.
You were all gone I do not know where.  I had left her only the evening
before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!  A
few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to
Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!  But in
this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense
of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling.  Her
sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was
obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget
it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh,
God!--what a hard-hearted rascal I was!"

They were both silent for a few moments.  Elinor first spoke.

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"

"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than
was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more
than was justified by the future.  I cannot think of it.--It won't
do.--Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
kindness and confidence.  Thank Heaven! it DID torture me.  I was
miserable.  Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
gives me to look back on my own misery.  I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now.  Well, I
went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent.  My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,
and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections
so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so inviting!--when I
looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed
journey!"

He stopped.

"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for
his departure, "and this is all?"

"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- That infamous
letter--Did she shew it you?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is--in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion--my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every word
was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
would forbid--a dagger to my heart.  To know that Marianne was in town
was--in the same language--a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts and
daggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her
opinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I am
sure they are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it
her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been
separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of
faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse.  I say
awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in
some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened
villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that
she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,
overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be
heartily glad to hear she is well married.'-- But this note made me
know myself better.  I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than
any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously.  But
every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.  To retreat
was impossible.  All that I had to do, was to avoid you both.  I sent
no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
Berkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a
cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely
out of the house one morning, and left my name."

"Watched us out of the house!"

"Even so.  You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how
often I was on the point of falling in with you.  I have entered many a
shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.  Lodging as I did
in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a
glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant
watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep
out of your sight, could have separated us so long.  I avoided the
Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common.  Not aware of their being in
town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his
coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's.  He asked me
to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me as
an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have
felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.  The next
morning brought another short note from Marianne--still affectionate,
open, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct most
hateful.  I could not answer it.  I tried--but could not frame a
sentence.  But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.
If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.
With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the
happy lover to another woman!--Those three or four weeks were worse
than all.  Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on
me; and what a sweet figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!--
Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in
such a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an
explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking
solicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other
hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is over
now.-- Such an evening!--I ran away from you all as soon as I could;
but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as
death.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;--the last
manner in which she appeared to me.  It was a horrid sight!--yet when I
thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me
to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw
her last in this world.  She was before me, constantly before me, as I
travelled, in the same look and hue."

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.  Willoughby first
rousing himself, broke it thus:

"Well, let me make haste and be gone.  Your sister is certainly better,
certainly out of danger?"

"We are assured of it."

"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne."

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to
say about that?"

"Yes, yes, THAT in particular.  Your sister wrote to me again, you
know, the very next morning.  You saw what she said.  I was
breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was
brought to me there from my lodgings.  It happened to catch Sophia's
eye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the
hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.  Some vague
report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in
Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding
evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous
than ever.  Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is
delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly,
and read its contents.  She was well paid for her impudence.
She read what made her wretched.  Her wretchedness I could have
borne, but her passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased.
And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of
letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was it not?"

"Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing."

"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as
I was ashamed to put my name to.  The original was all her own--her own
happy thoughts and gentle diction.  But what could I do!--we were
engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am
talking like a fool.  Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her money
was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be
done to prevent a rupture.  And after all, what did it signify to my
character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language
my answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end.  My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a
bluster was of little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in their
opinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from their
society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will
only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as,
in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and
parted with the last relics of Marianne.  Her three notes--unluckily
they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, and
could not even kiss them.  And the lock of hair--that too I had always
carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by
Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every
memento was torn from me."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
"you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my
sister.  You had made your own choice.  It was not forced on you.  Your
wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.  She
must be attached to you, or she would not have married you.  To treat
her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to
Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "She does
not deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we
married.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be
happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity
me, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be
it only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was
before?--My intentions were not always wrong.  Have I explained away
any part of my guilt?"

"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you.  You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.  But I hardly
know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have
made it worse."

"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well
as in yours.  You tell me that she has forgiven me already.  Let me be
able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present
feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more
gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.  Tell her of my misery and my
penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if
you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
called, your justification.  But you have not explained to me the
particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."

"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and
when he saw who I was--for the first time these two months--he spoke to
me.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without
surprise or resentment.  Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid
soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister,
could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought
to--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly.  As
bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter that
morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most
imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--I was too much
shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the
undiscerning Sir John.  His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;
and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he
almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise
about a pointer puppy.  What I felt on hearing that your sister was
dying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,
scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what
horrid projects might not have been imputed?  ONE person I was sure
would represent me as capable of any thing-- What I felt was
dreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this
morning I was in my carriage.  Now you know all."

Elinor made no answer.  Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent
habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the
character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person
and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a
feeling, affectionate temper.  The world had made him extravagant and
vain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another,
had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least
its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.  Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against
every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no
longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the
sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature.  From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the
end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie
at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and
said--

"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."

"Are you going back to town?"

"No--to Combe Magna.  I have business there; from thence to town in a
day or two.  Good bye."

He held out his hand.  She could not refuse to give him hers;--he
pressed it with affection.

"And you DO think something better of me than you did?"--said he,
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting
he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him
well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it.  His answer was
not very encouraging.

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question.  If, however, I am allowed
to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it
may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be
something to live for.  Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.
Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--"

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

"Well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live
in dread of one event."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister's marriage."

"You are very wrong.  She can never be more lost to you than she is
now."

"But she will be gained by some one else.  And if that some one should
be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that
where I have most injured I can least forgive.  Good bye,--God bless
you!"

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.



CHAPTER 45


Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the
sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a
crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness
was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a
degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made
her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a
tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged
within herself--to his wishes than to his merits.  She felt that his
influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not
in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that
open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess;
and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even
innocent to indulge.  But she felt that it was so, long, long before
she could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her
just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of
her hopes.  Elinor's heart was full.  The past, the present, the
future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's
expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits
which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful
of betraying herself to her sister.  Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after
Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every
unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the
hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support
her as she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced
almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither
for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;--and her
mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much
overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.  She
was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her
friend;--and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to
speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her
gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment.  He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than
her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,
rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only
checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther
sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when
the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing
her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by
every nurse around her.  Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night;
and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.  But
the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the
most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by
irritation of spirits.  Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now
allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would
not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now
acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.  But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.  She
dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne
might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be
happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS
sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward
of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened
to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out
for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further
intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,
that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away,
as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of
Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly
declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could
not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs.
Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment
which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to
think only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her
from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken
judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her;--and in her recovery she had yet another
source of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as
soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

"At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
happiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.  He has told me so himself."

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and
not surprised, was all silent attention.

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my
family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as
the object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most
happy with him of the two."

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be
carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and
therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.  It came
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.  I, you may well believe, could
talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw
that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship,
as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather,
not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings,
made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for
Marianne.  He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of
seeing her."

Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions
of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby
ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or
constant--which ever we are to call it--has subsisted through all the
knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless
young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could
he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!--such openness,
such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM."

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is
well established."

"I know it is,"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning,
I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it.  But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready
friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."

"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of
kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
case, would have prompted him.  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he
has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him;
and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very
considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne
can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our
connection the greatest blessing to us in the world.  What answer did
you give him?--Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying.  But he did not ask for hope or
encouragement.  His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible
effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent.  Yet
after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she
lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in
promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful
security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every
encouragement in my power.  Time, a very little time, I tell him, will
do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a
man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it."

"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made
him equally sanguine."

"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change
in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a
difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.  There,
however, he is quite mistaken.  His age is only so much beyond hers as
to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and
his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make
your sister happy.  And his person, his manners too, are all in his
favour.  My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much
more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if
you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."

Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to
me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to
be more solidly attaching to Marianne.  Their gentleness, their genuine
attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much
more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often
artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.  I am very sure myself,
that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved
himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with
HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I
hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small
house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our
present situation."

Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but
her spirit was stubborn.

"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her
friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.



CHAPTER 46


Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and
her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her
to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
Palmer's dressing-room.  When there, at her own particular request, for
she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her
mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than
his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose
from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something
more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton.  On HER
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon
brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as
equally determinate, if not equally indispensable.  At his and Mrs.
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the
course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
should engross at least half.  Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,
and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and
feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise
to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue.  Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.  To Elinor, the
observation of the latter was particularly grateful.  She, who had seen
her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of
heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted
of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and
cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every
field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.  But here, Elinor
could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted
Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an
emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,
and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.  In the whole of her
subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to
reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the
sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be
connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,
and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without
the atonement of a smile.  After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an
opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their
favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his
hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music
aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring
however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice
much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.  On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said
she, "we will take long walks together every day.  We will walk to the
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its
foundations as far as we are told they once reached.  I know we shall
be happy.  I know the summer will pass happily away.  I mean never to
be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall
divide every moment between music and reading.  I have formed my plan,
and am determined to enter on a course of serious study.  Our own
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond
mere amusement.  But there are many works well worth reading at the
Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can
borrow of Colonel Brandon.  By reading only six hours a-day, I shall
gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which
I now feel myself to want."

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her
to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work
in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and
virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she
remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared
she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of
Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
tranquillity.  Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved
to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed
it.  But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.  But at last a
soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's
wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's
arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in
the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had
advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the
hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
towards it, Marianne calmly said,

"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting
mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the
spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"--hesitatingly it
was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I
ought to do."--

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is
concerned.  I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been
for him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on
one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting
a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured
that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied
him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"--

She stopt.  Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,

"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of
such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a
situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could
expose me to"--

"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more.  She was debating within herself on the
eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till
Marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes
in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a
sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant
than my own.  He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure.  My
illness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for
serious recollection.  Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I
was perfectly able to reflect.  I considered the past: I saw in my own
behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of
kindness to others.  I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me
to the grave.  My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by
myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the
time to be wrong.  Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I
did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder
that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for
atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.  Had I
died,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my
friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my
latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should
I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have
consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.  Whenever
I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing
indulged.  Every body seemed injured by me.  The kindness, the
unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful
contempt.  To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every
common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they
deserve, I had given less than their due.  But you,--you above all,
above my mother, had been wronged by me.  I, and only I, knew your
heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before
me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking
any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular
gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge
alone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had
believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or
friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting
only THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for
whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
deserved.  Marianne pressed her hand and replied,

"You are very good.--The future must be my proof.  I have laid down my
plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved.  They shall no longer worry others,
nor torture myself.  I shall now live solely for my family.  You, my
mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will
share my affections entirely between you.  From you, from my home, I
shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix
in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my
heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.  As for Willoughby--to
say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or
opinions.  But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion,
by reason, by constant employment."

She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart,
everything would become easy."

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.  A
thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one.  She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing
but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully
minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could
be safely indulged.  As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a
kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her
tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up
stairs.  Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.



CHAPTER 47


Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former
favourite.  She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his
imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy.  But the
feelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him
with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne.  Nothing
could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his
means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.  Nothing
could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the
interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from
himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence
of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion
would have been greater.  But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in
her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed
explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself.  Reflection
had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of
Willoughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the
simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his
character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy
astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an
effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for
some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her
unsteady voice, plainly shewed.

"I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you
can desire me to do."

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's
unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.  Marianne
slowly continued--

"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have
now heard exactly what I wished to hear."--For some moments her voice
was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness
than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change.  I
never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later
I must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no
esteem.  Nothing could have done it away to my feelings."

"I know it--I know it," cried her mother.  "Happy with a man of
libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest
of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart
to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive
conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband
ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a
sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as
well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you
in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have
been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.
Had you married, you must have been always poor.  His expensiveness is
acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that
self-denial is a word hardly understood by him.  His demands and your
inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought
on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having
been entirely unknown and unthought of before.  YOUR sense of honour
and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation,
to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and,
perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort,
you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how
little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin
which had begun before your marriage?-- Beyond THAT, had you
endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not
to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to
consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart,
and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such
difficulties?"

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a
tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish?"

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to
the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.  It was
selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which
afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of
it, and which finally carried him from Barton.  His own enjoyment, or
his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."

"It is very true.  MY happiness never was his object."

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done.  And why
does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards
himself.  It has not made him happy.  His circumstances are now
unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only
that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.
But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been
happy?--The inconveniences would have been different.  He would then
have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are
removed, he now reckons as nothing.  He would have had a wife of whose
temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always
necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank
the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far
more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a
wife."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to
regret--nothing but my own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood;
"SHE must be answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might
weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
subject, immediately continued,

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the
story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first
offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams.  That crime
has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present
discontents."

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led
by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm
as friendship and design could unitedly dictate.  Her daughter did not
look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear
cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time
upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.  She had heard
nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,
nothing certain even of his present abode.  Some letters had passed
between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and
in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- "We know
nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so
prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which
was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,
for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his
mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication--

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.  Mrs. Dashwood,
whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively
taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's
countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to
bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,
supported her into the other room.  By that time, Marianne was rather
better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far
recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an
inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.  Mrs. Dashwood
immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the
benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"

"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady
too, Miss Steele as was.  They was stopping in a chaise at the door of
the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the
Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up
as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss
Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and
inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss
Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,
their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not
time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go
forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but
howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."

"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since
she was in these parts.  She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved.  So, I made free to wish her joy."

"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself
forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"Do you know where they came from?"

"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me."

"And are they going farther westward?"

"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long.  They will soon be back again, and
then they'd be sure and call here."

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
to expect them.  She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident that Edward would never come near them.  She
observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going
down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over.  Elinor looked as if she wished to
hear more.

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late."

"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both
her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often
had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go
without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a
similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.  Mrs. Dashwood feared to
hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.  She now
found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of
herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly
softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,
suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.  She found that she
had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her
daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well
understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to
believe, or than it was now proved to be.  She feared that under this
persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her
Elinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more
immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led
her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering
almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater
fortitude.



CHAPTER 48


Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an
unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,
and certainty itself.  She now found, that in spite of herself, she had
always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.
But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking
flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the
living, surprised her a little at first.  But she soon saw how likely
it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure
him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.  They were
married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.  What
had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her
mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.--Delaford,--that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she
wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.  She saw them
in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active,
contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with
the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her
economical practices;--pursuing her own interest in every thought,
courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend.  In Edward--she knew not what she saw, nor what she
wished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing pleased her; she turned away
her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther
particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no
tidings.  Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
with every absent friend.  They were all thoughtless or indolent.

"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
hear from him again.  I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, something to look forward to.  Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
horseback drew her eyes to the window.  He stopt at their gate.  It was
a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself.  Now she could hear more;
and she trembled in expectation of it.  But--it was NOT Colonel
Brandon--neither his air--nor his height.  Were it possible, she must
say it must be Edward.  She looked again.  He had just dismounted;--she
could not be mistaken,--it WAS Edward.  She moved away and sat down.
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us.  I WILL be calm; I WILL
be mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake.  She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.  She would have
given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that
she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to
him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud.  They all waited in silence for the
appearance of their visitor.  His footsteps were heard along the gravel
path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before
them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor.  His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if
fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of
that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be
guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him
her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.  Elinor's lips
had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,
she wished that she had shaken hands with him too.  But it was then too
late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and
talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of
the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict
silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
awful pause took place.  It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who
felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.  In a
hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said,

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise.-- "No, my mother
is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire
for Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars."

She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him.  He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
after some hesitation, said,--

"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
accent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,
even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.  He
rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not
knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and
while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to
pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor,
who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such
agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer.  She almost ran out of the room, and as
soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first
she thought would never cease.  Edward, who had till then looked any
where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--or even
heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie,
which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs.
Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted
the room, and walked out towards the village--leaving the others in the
greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so
wonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of
lessening but by their own conjectures.



CHAPTER 49


Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to
what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined
by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent
engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already
done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in
the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one.  It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether
inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should
feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in
need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how
soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he
expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly
told.  This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at
four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his
lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous
profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one
of the happiest of men.  His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful.  He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to
swell his heart, and raise his spirits.  He was released without any
reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his
misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;--and elevated at
once to that security with another, which he must have thought of
almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with
desire.  He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to
happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,
flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in
him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.

"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the
consequence of ignorance of the world--and want of employment.  Had my
mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think--nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the
time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had
any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance
from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I
must have done.  But instead of having any thing to do, instead of
having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any
myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first
twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which
belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered
at Oxford till I was nineteen.  I had therefore nothing in the world to
do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home
in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my
brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to
be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and
was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part
of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything
that was amiable and obliging.  She was pretty too--at least I thought
so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no
comparisons, and see no defects.  Considering everything, therefore, I
hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every
way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
piece of folly."

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the
satisfaction of a sleepless night.  Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be
comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how
to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.

Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears.  Comparisons would
occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love
for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.

But Elinor--how are HER feelings to be described?--From the moment of
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
was every thing by turns but tranquil.  But when the second moment had
passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared
her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably
released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the
release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as
constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was
overcome by her own felicity;--and happily disposed as is the human
mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it
required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree
of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different.  Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and
Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard.  How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a
girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her
comprehension to make out.  To her own heart it was a delightful
affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her
reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his
opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have
done, if applied to in time.  She repeated it to Edward.

"THAT was exactly like Robert,"--was his immediate observation.--"And
THAT," he presently added, "might perhaps be in HIS head when the
acquaintance between them first began.  And Lucy perhaps at first might
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour.  Other designs
might afterward arise."

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means
of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual.  Not the
smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy
herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between
the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance.  He put the
letter into Elinor's hands.

     "DEAR SIR,

     "Being very sure I have long lost your affections,
     I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own
     on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with
     him as I once used to think I might be with you;
     but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was
     another's.  Sincerely wish you happy in your choice,
     and it shall not be my fault if we are not always
     good friends, as our near relationship now makes
     proper.  I can safely say I owe you no ill-will,
     and am sure you will be too generous to do us any
     ill offices.  Your brother has gained my affections
     entirely, and as we could not live without one
     another, we are just returned from the altar, and
     are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which
     place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,
     but thought I would first trouble you with these
     few lines, and shall always remain,

     "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
                                        "LUCY FERRARS.

     "I have burnt all your letters, and will return
     your picture the first opportunity.  Please to destroy
     my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very
     welcome to keep."

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said
Edward.--"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by YOU
in former days.--In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how I
have blushed over the pages of her writing!--and I believe I may say
that since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the
only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me
any amends for the defect of the style."

"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they
are certainly married.  And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment.  The independence she settled on Robert,
through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own
choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand
a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for
intending to do.  She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's
marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her."

"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.--She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner."

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
by him.  He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after
Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest
road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with
which that road did not hold the most intimate connection.  He could do
nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his
rapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect
a very cruel reception.  It was his business, however, to say that he
DID, and he said it very prettily.  What he might say on the subject a
twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and
wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions--they had been equally
imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself.  Nothing but
such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an
engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his
mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to
him.

"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give
her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in
the world to assist me.  In such a situation as that, where there
seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly
insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but
the most disinterested affection was her inducement?  And even now, I
cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage
it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the
smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living."

"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
that your own family might in time relent.  And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
fettered neither her inclination nor her actions.  The connection was
certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would
be better for her to marry YOU than be single."

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at
Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be."

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.

"I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
as my honour.  I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got.  After that, I suppose, I WAS
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself."

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,
but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented
his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present," said he,
"after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,
he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."

NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.
But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his
knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish,
condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who
had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much
attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome.  They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain--and they only wanted something to live upon.  Edward had two
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their
income.  But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would
still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been
spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil
than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would
serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.

About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
with her than her house would hold.  Edward was allowed to retain the
privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete
before breakfast.

A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at
least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness
of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to
make it cheerful.  Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he
did revive.  No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew
nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were
consequently spent in hearing and in wondering.  Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice
in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the
interest of Elinor.

It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,
for it could not be otherwise.  Their resemblance in good principles
and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably
have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
with less emotion than mirth.  Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the
wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting
girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she
was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all
accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.-- "I do think," she
continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days
before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me.  Not a soul
suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul!  came
crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars,
as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems
borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we
suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in
the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her
down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with
Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor
again.  And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along
with them in the chaise is worse than all.  Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot
get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss
Marianne must try to comfort him."

Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn.  Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of
sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a
blow, with grateful wonder.  Robert's offence was unpardonable, but
Lucy's was infinitely worse.  Neither of them were ever again to be
mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced
to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her
daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence.  The secrecy with
which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally
treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion
of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to
prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him in
regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been
fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery
farther in the family.-- He thus continued:

"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion.  Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a
line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to
her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be
on good terms with her children."

This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
Edward.  It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.

"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg
my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of
honour to ME?--I can make no submission--I am grown neither humble nor
penitent by what has passed.--I am grown very happy; but that would not
interest.--I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make."

"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have
offended;--and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to
profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew
on you your mother's anger."

He agreed that he might.

"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in HER eyes as the first."

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,
as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by
word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
offices in his favour.-- "And if they really DO interest themselves,"
said Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a
reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
without merit."

After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the
two gentlemen quitted Barton together.-- They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future
home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements
were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of
nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.



CHAPTER 50


After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.  For many years of
her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward
a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of
Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off
as rapidly as before.  With apprehensive caution therefore it was
revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.  Mrs.
Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying
Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;--told him, that in Miss
Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;--and
enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter
of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only
the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than THREE; but when
she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her
representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she
judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and
therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own
dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she
issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to
be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now
her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was
inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two
hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for
the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had
been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by
Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,
seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with
an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making
considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their
completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments
and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,
as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton
church early in the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the
Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the
Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;--could
chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.  Mrs. Jennings's
prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for
she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by
Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really
believed, one of the happiest couples in the world.  They had in fact
nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
and rather better pasturage for their cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations
and friends.  Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was
almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the
expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.

"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as
they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford
House, "THAT would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one
of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is.  But, I
confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
brother.  His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in
such respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--I have not
seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in
Delaford Hanger!--And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly
the person to attract him--yet I think it would altogether be advisable
for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel
Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may
happen--for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of
anybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to
advantage, and so forth;--in short, you may as well give her a
chance--You understand me."--

But though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and always treated them
with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by
her real favour and preference.  THAT was due to the folly of Robert,
and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many
months had passed away.  The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had
at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of
his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous
attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was
given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
re-established him completely in her favour.

The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance
of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however
its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and
conscience.  When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately
visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed
to him by his brother.  He merely meant to persuade her to give up the
engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection
of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle
the matter.  In that point, however, and that only, he erred;--for
though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her
in TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to
produce this conviction.  Some doubts always lingered in her mind when
they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's
discourse with himself.  His attendance was by this means secured, and
the rest followed in course.  Instead of talking of Edward, they came
gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on which he had always
more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an
interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily
evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother.  He was
proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of
marrying privately without his mother's consent.  What immediately
followed is known.  They passed some months in great happiness at
Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and
he drew several plans for magnificent cottages;--and from thence
returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the
simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was
adopted.  The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,
comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and
therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks
longer unpardoned.  But perseverance in humility of conduct and
messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for
the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty
notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards,
by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence.
Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny;
and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended
to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth,
was spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing considered, and
always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child.  They settled in
town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the
best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the
jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy,
in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent
domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing
could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to
it, might have puzzled them still more.  It was an arrangement,
however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing
ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a
suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving
his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if Edward
might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every
particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and
from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no
less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an
exchange.

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,
for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with
her.  Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure
in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing
Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though
rather more liberal than what John had expressed.  It was now her
darling object.  Precious as was the company of her daughter to her,
she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her
valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was
equally the wish of Edward and Elinor.  They each felt his sorrows, and
their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the
reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of
his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,
which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody
else--burst on her--what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.  She was born to
discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her
conduct, her most favourite maxims.  She was born to overcome an
affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment
superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
her hand to another!--and THAT other, a man who had suffered no less
than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years
before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought
the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was.  Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead
of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only
pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and
sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at nineteen,
submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new
home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
believed he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every past
affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,
and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own
happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of
each observing friend.  Marianne could never love by halves; and her
whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had
once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of
Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as
the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he
behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy
and rich.  That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its
own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long
thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret.  But
that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or
contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must
not be depended on--for he did neither.  He lived to exert, and
frequently to enjoy himself.  His wife was not always out of humour,
nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs,
and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of
domestic felicity.

For Marianne, however--in spite of his incivility in surviving her
loss--he always retained that decided regard which interested him in
every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
perfection in woman;--and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him
in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an
age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being
supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the
merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked
as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost
within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.
