Persuasion

By Jane Austen ()

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Chapter 

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 con-
templating 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 his-
tory 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 add-

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ing, 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 re-
spectable 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 El-
liot’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 in-
ferior 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.

 Persuasion
 His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his at-
tachment; 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 acquain-
tance. 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 ex-
tremely well provided for, should have no thought of a

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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 conse-
quence; 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 impor-
tance, 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 understand-
ing, 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 high-
ly 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 to-
tally different were her delicate features and mild dark eyes

 Persuasion
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 con-
nected 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, mar-
ry 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 Rus-
sell’s temples had long been a distress to him.
Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal con-
tentment. Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch
Hall, presiding and directing with a self-possession and de-
cision which could never have given the idea of her being
younger than she was. For thirteen years had she been do-
ing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at home,

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and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking im-
mediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms
and dining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters’ revolv-
ing 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 fa-
ther, for a few weeks’ annual enjoyment of the great world.
She had the remembrance of all this, she had the conscious-
ness 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

 Persuasion
them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot’s death, Sir Wal-
ter 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 has 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 disappro-
bation 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 be-
tween them had ceased.
This very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an

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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 daugh-
ter. 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, un-
eventful 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 dis-
tressed for money. She knew, that when he now took up the
Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeo-
ple, and the unwelcome hints of Mr Shepherd, his agent,

 Persuasion
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 impe-
riously 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 add-
ed the happy thought of their taking no present down to
Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom. But these mea-
sures, 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 relin-

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quishing their comforts in a way not to be borne.
There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter
could dispose of; but had every acre been alienable, it 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 ex-
penditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence of
taste or pride.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

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 ad-
vised as he meant to see finally adopted.
Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject,
and gave it much serious consideration. She was a woman
rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in
coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the
opposition of two leading principles. She was of strict integ-
rity 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

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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 dif-
ficulties.
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 ques-
tion. 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 want-
ed more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation,
a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indiffer-
ence for everything but justice and equity.
‘If we can persuade your father to all this,’ said Lady Rus-
sell, 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

 Persuasion
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 consid-
ered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims
of creditors with all the expedition which the most compre-
hensive 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 reforma-
tion. 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 tak-
en 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, ser-
vants, horses, table— contractions and restrictions every
where! To live no longer with the decencies even of a private

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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 persuad-
ed 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 an-
cient 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 an-
other 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 am-
bition. 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.

 Persuasion
 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 compara-
tively 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 con-
sidered 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

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had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits
were not high. A larger society would improve them. She
wanted her to be more known.
The undesirableness of any other house in the same
neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strength-
ened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme,
which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He was
not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others;
a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter’s
have found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, how-
ever, 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 unexcep-
tionable 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 in-
timacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the
daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unpros-
perous marriage, to her father’s house, with the additional
burden of two children. She was a clever young woman, who

 Persuasion
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 re-
serve.
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 be-
yond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded
in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous in-
clination. 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 arrange-
ments which shut her out, and on many lesser occasions had
endeavoured to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own bet-
ter 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 dan-
gerous 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 im-
portance.

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Chapter 

‘I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter,’ said Mr Shepherd

one morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspa-
per, ‘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 ten-
ants. 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 busi-
ness, 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 contem-
plated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult it
is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world

 Persuasion
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 at-
tending 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 imag-
ine, 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 desir-
able 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 El-

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liot, 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 rec-
ommend 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. De-
pend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than
his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter Elliot can-
not 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,’

 Persuasion
was Mr Shepherd’s rejoinder, and ‘Oh! certainly,’ was his
daughter’s; but Sir Walter’s remark was, soon afterwards—
‘The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see
any friend of mine belonging to it.’
‘Indeed!’ was the reply, and with a look of surprise.
‘Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong
grounds of objection to it. First, as being the means of
bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction,
and raising men to honours which their fathers and grand-
fathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man’s
youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old 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 him-
self, 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 Ba-
sil, ‘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;

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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 in-
deed. 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 pro-
fessions, 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 profes-
sion 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 prop-
erty, without the torment of trying for more; it is only their
lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good appear-

 Persuasion
ance 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 short-
ly 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 coun-
try, 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 suspi-
cious inquiry.
Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman’s

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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 sta-
tioned 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 small-
est 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 sur-
prised if Sir Walter had asked more; had inquired about the
manor; would be glad of the deputation, certainly, but made
no great point of it; said he 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 ad-

 Persuasion
miral, 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 gen-
tleman who did live amongst us once; she told me so herself:
sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at Monk-
ford. Bless me! what was his name? At this moment I cannot
recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelo-
pe, 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 hun-
dred 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, submit-
ted to an amicable compromise. Very odd indeed!’
After waiting another moment—
‘You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?’ said Anne.

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 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 cir-
cumstances more indisputably in their favour; their age,
and number, and fortune; the high idea they had formed
of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage
of renting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing
beyond the happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter El-
liot: 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 per-
mitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into
allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and autho-
rising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still remained at

 Persuasion
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 bar-
onet 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 ten-
ant 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 walk-
ing here.’

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Chapter 

He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monk-

ford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain
Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made com-
mander in consequence of the action off St Domingo, and
not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire,
in the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a
home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a re-
markably 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 propos-
als, 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 ap-
plied 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

 Persuasion
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 wear-
ing, 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

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to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong. Lady Rus-
sell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to
imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in ev-
ery 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 opin-
ion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising
her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the engagement a
wrong thing: indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of suc-
cess, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish
caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had
she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more
than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The be-
lief 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.

 Persuasion
 More than seven years were gone since this little his-
tory of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time
had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar at-
tachment 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 Fred-
erick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second
attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and suffi-
cient 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 nine-
teen, 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 dis-
cretion, 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,

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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 anxi-
ety 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 confi-
dence 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

 Persuasion
for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich;
and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe
him married.
How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how elo-
quent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm
attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against
that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion
and distrust Providence! She had been forced into prudence
in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the
natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.
With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings,
she could not hear that Captain Wentworth’s sister was
likely to live at Kellynch without a revival of former pain;
and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dis-
pel 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 su-
periority of Lady Russell’s motives in this, over those of her
father and Elizabeth; she could honour all the better feel-
ings 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 be-

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lieved, 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, ac-
companying 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.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft’s

seeing Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take
her almost daily walk to Lady Russell’s, and keep out of the
way till all was over; when she found it most natural to be
sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them.
This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfac-
tory, and decided the whole business at once. Each lady was
previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing,
therefore, but good manners in the other; and with regard
to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good humour,
such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral’s side, as
could not but influence Sir 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 ev-
ery body, was right; and Mr Shepherd’s clerks were set to
work, without there having been a single preliminary dif-
ference to modify of all that ‘This indenture 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 arrang-
ing of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with

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him any where; and the Admiral, with sympathetic cordi-
ality, 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 es-
teemed 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 mak-
ing 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

 Persuasion
of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was in-
disposed; 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 reason-
ing; and Elizabeth’s reply was, ‘Then I am sure Anne had
better stay, for nobody will want her in Bath.’
To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style,
is at least better than being rejected as no good at all; and
Anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have anything
marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the
scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, read-
ily agreed to stay.
This invitation of Mary’s removed all Lady Russell’s dif-
ficulties, 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 al-
most startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall
plan, when it burst on her, which was, Mrs Clay’s being en-
gaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth, as a most
important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the busi-
ness before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such
a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered,
grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne,
in Mrs Clay’s being of so much use, while Anne could be of

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none, was a very sore aggravation.
Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but
she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keen-
ly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet observation,
and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father’s
character, she was sensible that results the most serious to
his family from the intimacy were more than possible. She
did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of
the kind. Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and
a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe
remarks upon, in her absence; but she was young, and cer-
tainly altogether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute
mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dan-
gerous attractions than any merely personal might have
been. Anne was so impressed by the degree of their dan-
ger, 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 warn-
ing.
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

 Persuasion
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 absolute-
ly 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

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Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove
off in very good spirits; Sir Walter prepared with conde-
scending 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 tranquil-
lity, 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 in-
tercourse had become precious by habit. It was painful to
look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to antic-
ipate 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 ar-
rived, she had determined to make her own absence from
home begin when she must give up Anne. Accordingly
their removal was made together, and Anne was set down
at Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell’s
journey.
Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few
years back had been completely in the old English style, con-
taining only two houses superior in appearance to those of
the yeomen and labourers; the mansion of the squire, with
its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and un-
modernized, 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

 Persuasion
Cottage, with its veranda, French windows, and other pret-
tiness, 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 run-
ning 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 hu-
mour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her
completely. She had no resources for solitude; and inherit-
ing 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 fur-
niture 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 crea-
ture the whole morning!’
‘I am sorry to find you unwell,’ replied Anne. ‘You sent
me such a good account of yourself on Thursday!’

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 ‘Yes, I made the best of it; I always do: but I was very far
from well at the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in
my life as I have been all this morning: very unfit to be left
alone, I am sure. Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in
some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell! So, Lady
Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this
house three times this summer.’
Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her hus-
band. ‘Oh! Charles is out shooting. I have not seen him since
seven o’clock. He would go, though I told him how ill I was.
He said he should not stay out long; but he has never come
back, and now it is almost one. I 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, cheer-
fully. ‘You know I always cure you when I come. How are
your neighbours at the Great House?’
‘I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one
of them to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and
spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse;
and though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have
been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves,
I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way.’
‘You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is
gone. It is early.’

 Persuasion
 ‘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 be-
sides 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 rec-
ollect 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 Mack-
enzie, 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 under-
stood 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

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concluded you must have been obliged to give up the par-
ty.’
‘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 Louise; 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, for-
getting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room,
beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then
she was well enough to propose a little walk.
‘Where shall we go?’ said she, when they were ready. ‘I
suppose you will not like to call at the Great House before
they have been to see you?’
‘I have not the smallest objection on that account,’ re-
plied Anne. ‘I should never think of standing on such
ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs and the Miss
Musgroves.’

 Persuasion
 ‘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 high-
ly imprudent; but she had ceased to endeavour to check it,
from believing that, though there were on each side contin-
ual 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 al-
teration, 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 man-
ners. There was a numerous family; but the only two grown
up, excepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young la-
dies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from school
at Exeter all the usual stock of accomplishments, and were

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now like thousands of other young ladies, living to be fash-
ionable, 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 comfort-
able 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 un-
derstanding 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 gen-
erally, 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 in-
vitation.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

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 af-
fairs which at Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general
publicity and pervading interest; yet, with all this experi-
ence, 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 Wal-
ter 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

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all gone away to be happy at Bath!’
She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in
future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraor-
dinary blessing of having one such truly sympathising
friend as Lady Russell.
The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and
to destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to en-
gage 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 re-
spected 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 contem-

 Persuasion
plation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe, with
Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have great-
ly 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, with-
out 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 some-
times 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 fa-
ther; 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 in-
terference,’ 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

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there was her being treated with too much confidence by
all parties, and being too much in the secret of the com-
plaints of each house. Known to have some influence with
her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiv-
ing 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 oppor-
tunity of being alone with Anne, to say, ‘Oh! Miss Anne, I
cannot help wishing Mrs Charles had a little of your meth-
od 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 trou-
blesome 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

 Persuasion
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 ex-
aggeration, that her upper house-maid and laundry-maid,
instead of being in their business, are gadding about the vil-
lage, 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 inter-
fering 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 sto-
ries 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

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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 nonsensi-
cal 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 al-
ways insisting on it. It is not that mamma cares about it the
least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many
persons.’
How was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She
could do little more than listen patiently, soften every griev-
ance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of
the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours,
and make those hints broadest which were meant for her
sister’s benefit.
In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very
well. Her own spirits improved by change of place and sub-
ject, by being removed three miles from Kellynch; Mary’s
ailments lessened by having a constant companion, and
their daily intercourse with the other family, since there
was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment
in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advan-
tage. It was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for
they met every morning, and hardly ever spent an evening

 Persuasion
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 Mus-
groves, 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 invita-
tion and by chance, than any other family. There 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 afflu-
ent circumstances, who depended on the Musgroves for all

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their pleasures: they would come at any time, and help play
at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much pre-
ferring 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 no-
tice 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 fur-
niture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other eyes
and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the
29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in
the evening from Mary, who, on having occasion to note
down the day of the month, exclaimed, ‘Dear me, is not this
the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am glad I did
not think of it before. How low it makes me!’
The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and
were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself.
‘Nobody knew how much she should suffer. She should put
it off as long as she could;’ but was not easy till she had talk-
ed Charles into driving her over on an early day, and was
in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agita-
tion, 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

 Persuasion
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 decid-
ed, 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 symp-
tom 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

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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 Went-
worth 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 car-
rying 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 anx-
ious 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 begin-

 Persuasion
ning 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 mam-
ma 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 spir-
its. 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

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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 noth-
ing 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 Went-
worth’s frigate, the Laconia; and from the Laconia he had,
under the influence of his captain, written the only two let-
ters 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 applica-
tions 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 sudden-
ly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of
Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those

 Persuasion
extraordinary bursts of mind which do sometimes occur.
She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she sup-
posed; 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 know on
first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was, in a lesser de-
gree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage,
they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew
on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheer-
ful companions could give 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,

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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.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

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 in-
difference, 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

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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 ar-
rival 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 Robin-
son 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 Cap-
tain Wentworth’s visit; staying five minutes behind their
father and mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly
delighted they were with him, how much handsomer, how
infinitely more agreeable they thought him than any indi-
vidual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all
a favourite before. How glad they had been to hear papa in-
vite him to stay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite
out of his power, and how glad again when he had promised

 Persuasion
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 man-
ner, 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, per-
haps, 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, in-
deed, Charles, I cannot bear to have you go away. Only
think if anything should happen?’

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 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 in-
jury 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 fa-
ther 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 di-
rectly, 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 oppo-
sition will be vain. Mary knew, from Charles’s manner of
speaking, that he was quite determined on going, and that
it would be of no use to teaze him. She said nothing, there-
fore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was
only Anne to hear—
‘So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this
poor sick child; and not a creature coming near us all the
evening! I knew how it would be. This is always my luck. If

 Persuasion
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 run-
ning 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 feel-
ings 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 un-
derstand 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?’

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 ‘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 fa-
ther 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 can-
not 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 di-
rectly. 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

 Persuasion
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 pro-
posal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great deal
better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tues-
day.’
‘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 see-
ing them set off together in high spirits. They were gone, she
hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such hap-
piness 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.

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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 wait-
ed 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 agree-
able; 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 Cot-
tage, 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 break-
fast 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 be-
ginning breakfast when Charles came in to say that they

 Persuasion
were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs, that his
sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters
meaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Went-
worth proposing also to wait on her for a few minutes if
not inconvenient; and though Charles had answered for the
child’s being in no such state as could make it inconvenient,
Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without his run-
ning on to give notice.
Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delight-
ed 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 draw-
ing-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,

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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 wis-
dom 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.

 Persuasion
No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had
only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no re-
spect lessening his personal advantages. She had seen the
same Frederick Wentworth.
‘So altered that he should not have known her again!’
These were words which could not but dwell with her. Yet
she soon began to rejoice that she had heard them. They
were of sobering tendency; they allayed agitation; they com-
posed, and consequently must make her happier.
Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or some-
thing like them, but without an idea that they would be
carried round to her. He had thought her wretchedly al-
tered, 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, ex-
cept 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 be-
ing 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

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Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for
any pleasing young woman who came in his way, except-
ing 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 com-
pliments to the navy, and I am a lost man. Should not this be
enough for a sailor, who has had no society among women
to make him nice?’
He said it, she knew, to be contradicted. His bright proud
eye spoke the conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot
was not out of his thoughts, when he more seriously de-
scribed 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 in-
ferior I shall of course put up with, but it must not be much.
If I am a fool, I shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on
the subject more than most men.’

 Persuasion
Chapter 

From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were

repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in
company together at Mr Musgrove’s, for the little boy’s state
could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absent-
ing herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings
and other meetings.
Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be
brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be
brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be
reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be
named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which
conversation called forth. His profession qualified him,
his disposition lead him, to talk; and ‘That was in the year
six;’ ‘That happened before I went to sea in the year six,’ oc-
curred in the course of the first evening they spent together:
and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no
reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he
spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge
of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any
more than herself. There must be the same immediate asso-
ciation 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

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each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of
all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Upper-
cross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to
speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Ad-
miral 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 coun-
tenances 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 ac-
commodation 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

 Persuasion
time.’
Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs
Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few min-
utes, 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 Up-
percross), and sitting down together to pore over it, with the
professed view of finding out the ships that Captain Went-
worth 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

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time. Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more in-
terest than his.’
‘I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;’ replied Captain
Wentworth, seriously. ‘I was as well satisfied with my ap-
pointment 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 pri-
vateers 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

 Persuasion
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 be-
ing 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 ex-
clamations 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 La-
conia, 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 cap-
tain to Captain Wentworth.’
‘Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not
be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would
be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good
friend.’
Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabili-
ties of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away.
The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain
Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking
the precious volume into his own hands to save them the
trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her
name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, ob-
serving over it that she too had been one of the best friends
man ever had.

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 ‘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 Went-
worth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick
Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense,
and as if waiting for more.
‘My brother,’ whispered one of the girls; ‘mamma is think-
ing of poor Richard.’
‘Poor dear fellow!’ continued Mrs Musgrove; ‘he was
grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while
he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy
thing, if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Went-
worth, we are very sorry he ever left you.’
There was a momentary expression in Captain Went-
worth’s face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright eye,
and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced Anne,
that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove’s kind wishes, as to
her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him;
but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to
be detected by any who understood him less than herself; in

 Persuasion
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, in-
deed. 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 nec-
essary proportions. A large bulky figure has as good a right
to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in
the world. But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming con-
junctions, 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—

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 ‘If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Fred-
erick, 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 im-
possible it is, with all one’s efforts, and all one’s sacrifices, to
make the accommodations on board such as women ought
to have. There can be no want of gallantry, Admiral, in rat-
ing 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 al-
together.’
‘Nothing to the purpose,’ replied her brother. ‘You were
living with your husband, and were the only woman on

 Persuasion
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 any-
thing of Harville’s from the world’s end, if he wanted it. But
do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil in itself.’
‘Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable.’
‘I might not like them the better for that perhaps. Such a
number of women and children have no right to be comfort-
able 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 Har-
ville 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 crea-
tures. 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.’

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 ‘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 At-
lantic 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 rea-
sonable 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

 Persuasion
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 al-
ready 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

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the continued appearance of the most perfect good-will be-
tween 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 El-
liot 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.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

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 Shrop-
shire, 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 every-
thing most bewitching in his reception there; the old were
so hospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but
resolve to remain where he was, and take all the charms and
perfections of Edward’s wife upon credit a little longer.
It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day. The
Musgroves could hardly be more ready to invite than he to
come, particularly in the morning, when he had no compan-
ion 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 dependen-
cies. 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

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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 at-
tachment previous to Captain Wentworth’s introduction.
He was in orders; and having a curacy in the neighbour-
hood, where residence was not required, lived at his father’s
house, only two miles from Uppercross. A short absence
from home had left his fair one unguarded by his attentions
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 com-
pared 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 Up-
percross, 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 oth-
er, and only such a consciousness of superiority in the Miss
Musgroves, as made them pleased to improve their cousins.

 Persuasion
Charles’s attentions to Henrietta had been observed by her
father and mother without any disapprobation. ‘It would
not be a great match for her; but if Henrietta liked him,’—
and Henrietta did seem to like him.
Henrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Went-
worth came; but from that time Cousin Charles had been
very much forgotten.
Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Went-
worth was as yet quite doubtful, as far as Anne’s observation
reached. Henrietta was perhaps the prettiest, Louisa had
the higher spirits; and she knew not now, whether the more
gentle or the more lively character were most likely to at-
tract him.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from
an entire confidence in the discretion of both their daugh-
ters, and of all the young men who came near them, seemed
to leave 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 Henri-
etta, 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

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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 cre-
ations.’
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 de-
cidedly 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 Mus-
groves 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

 Persuasion
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 him-
self.
‘Now you are taking 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 get-
ting 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 prop-
erty. 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

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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 non-
sense 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 alterna-
tion could not be understood too soon.
Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mor-

 Persuasion
tify him in his cousin’s behaviour. She had too old a regard
for him to be so wholly estranged as might in two meet-
ings 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 Cap-
tain Wentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause.
He had been absent only two Sundays, and when they part-
ed, had left her interested, even to the height of his wishes,
in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and ob-
taining 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 ad-
vantage 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 injuri-
ous 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.

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 ‘Well, I am very glad indeed: but I always thought you
would have it; I always thought you sure. It did not appear to
me that—in short, you know, Dr Shirley must have a curate,
and you had secured his promise. Is he coming, Louisa?’
One morning, very soon after the dinner at the Mus-
groves, at which Anne had not been present, Captain
Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at the Cottage,
where were only herself and the little invalid Charles, who
was lying on the sofa.
The surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne
Elliot, 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 po-
litely 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

 Persuasion
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 young-
er 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 ex-
tremely 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.’

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 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 tes-
tify 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 pa-
tient 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

 Persuasion
Charles Hayter’s feelings, nor anybody’s feelings, could in-
terest 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.

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Chapter 

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 mem-
ory 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 Hay-
ter 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 Went-
worth 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 accept-
ing the attentions (for accepting must be the word) of two
young women at once.
After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed

 Persuasion
to quit the field. Three days had passed without his com-
ing 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 oth-
er 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,

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but in vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept
the Miss Musgroves’ much more cordial invitation to her-
self to go likewise, as she might be useful in turning back
with her sister, and lessening the interference in any plan
of their own.
‘I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not
like a long walk,’ said Mary, as she went up stairs. ‘Every-
body is always supposing that I am not a good walker; and
yet they would not have been pleased, if we had refused to
join them. When people come in this manner on purpose to
ask us, how can one say no?’
Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned.
They had taken out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport,
and sent them back early. Their time and strength, and spir-
its, 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 to-
gether 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 sepa-
rations 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 ex-
tant of autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible

 Persuasion
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 Henri-
etta. 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 com-
ing 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.

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 ‘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 de-
clining 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 as-
cent through large enclosures, where the ploughs at work,
and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting
the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have
spring again, they gained the summit of the most consider-
able hill, which parted Uppercross and Winthrop, and soon
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 Mus-

 Persuasion
grove, 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 Win-
throp, 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 Henriet-
ta, Mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around
her, and saying to Captain Wentworth—
‘It is very unpleasant, having such connexions! But, I as-
sure you, I have never been in the house above twice in my
life.’
She received no other answer, than an artificial, assent-
ing smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned
away, which Anne perfectly knew the meaning of.
The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheer-
ful spot: Louisa returned; and Mary, finding a comfortable

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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 dis-
tinguished. 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 interfer-
ence 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

 Persuasion
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! Af-
ter 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 indeci-
sive a character, that no influence over it can be depended
on. You are never sure of a good impression being dura-
ble; 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

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they should be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful
and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her
present powers of mind.’
He had done, and was unanswered. It would have sur-
prised Anne if Louisa could have readily answered such a
speech: words of such interest, spoken with such serious
warmth! She could imagine what Louisa was feeling. For
herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen. While
she remained, a bush of low rambling holly 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 book-
ish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she
persuaded Anne to refuse him.’

 Persuasion
 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 pro-
verbial 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 im-
mediately 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 con-
fidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the
gentleman’s side, and a relenting on the lady’s, and that
they were now very glad to be together again, did not ad-
mit 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 Went-
worth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions
were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked

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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 net-
tles 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 com-
ing 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 be-

 Persuasion
fore any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride
could not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.
The walking party had crossed the lane, and were sur-
mounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his
horse 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 excel-
lent 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 be-
ginning 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 qui-
etly 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 unfeel-
ing. Though condemning her for the past, and considering
it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly care-
less of her, and though becoming attached to another, still

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he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her
relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an im-
pulse 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 plea-
sure 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 persuad-
ed 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 lit-
tle more canvass, and bring us home one of these young

 Persuasion
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 ju-
diciously putting out her hand they neither fell into a rut,
nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and Anne, with some amuse-
ment 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.

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Chapter 

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 leav-
ing 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 domes-
tic 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 re-
newal 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.

 Persuasion
 These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating
her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had been
stationed quite long enough. Her usefulness to little Charles
would always give some sweetness to the memory of her two
months’ visit there, but he was gaining strength apace, and
she had nothing else to stay for.
The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a
way which she had not at all imagined. Captain Wentworth,
after being unseen and unheard of at Uppercross for two
whole days, appeared again among them to justify himself
by a relation of what had kept him away.
A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found
him out at last, had brought intelligence of Captain Har-
ville’s being settled with his family at Lyme for the winter;
of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within twen-
ty 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 coun-
try about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an
earnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for go-
ing 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

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was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolu-
tion to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked,
being now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her
own way, bore down all the wishes of her father and moth-
er 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 ra-
tionally considered, a day in the middle of November would
not leave much time for seeing a new place, after deduct-
ing 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 unques-
tionably to walk directly down to the sea. They were come
too late in the year for any amusement or variety which

 Persuasion
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 compa-
ny; 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 hap-
piest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in
unwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheer-
ful 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 fall-
ing of the cliff prepared the ground for such a state, where a
scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may more
than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed
Isle of Wight: these places must be visited, and visited again,
to make the worth of Lyme understood.
The party from Uppercross passing down by the now
deserted and melancholy looking rooms, and still descend-

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ing, soon found themselves on the sea-shore; and lingering
only, as all must linger and gaze on a first return to the sea,
who ever deserved to look on it at all, proceeded towards the
Cobb, equally their object in itself and on Captain Went-
worth’s account: for in a small house, near the foot of an
old pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled. Cap-
tain Wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others
walked on, and he was to join them on the Cobb.
They were by no means tired of wondering and admir-
ing; and not even Louisa seemed to feel that they had parted
with Captain Wentworth long, when they saw him coming
after them, with three companions, all well known already,
by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a Cap-
tain 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 of-
ficer, 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-mon-
ey 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 Went-
worth believed it impossible for man to be more attached to

 Persuasion
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 suf-
fer 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 pos-
sible, 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 di-
recting 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 sor-
rowing heart than I have. I cannot believe his prospects so
blighted for ever. He is younger than I am; younger in feel-
ing, 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 pleas-
ing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and

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drew back from conversation.
Captain Harville, though not equalling Captain Went-
worth in manners, was a perfect gentleman, unaffected,
warm, and obliging. Mrs Harville, a degree less polished
than her husband, seemed, however, to have the same good
feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their de-
sire of considering the whole party as friends of their own,
because the friends of Captain Wentworth, or more kind-
ly 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 accommo-
dating 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 contriv-
ances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn

 Persuasion
the actual space to the best account, to supply the deficien-
cies of lodging-house furniture, and defend the windows
and doors against the winter storms to be expected. The va-
rieties in the fitting-up of the rooms, where the common
necessaries provided by the owner, in the common indiffer-
ent 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 la-
bours, the effect of its influence on his habits, the picture of
repose and domestic happiness it presented, made it to her a
something more, or less, than gratification.
Captain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived ex-
cellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves,
for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the prop-
erty of Captain Benwick. His lameness prevented him from
taking much exercise; but a mind of usefulness and inge-
nuity 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 her-
self walking, burst forth into raptures of admiration and
delight on the character of the navy; their friendliness, their
brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness; protesting

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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 respect-
ed 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 thor-
oughfare 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 op-
pressed 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, sup-
plied 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

 Persuasion
shy, and disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mild-
ness 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 con-
siderable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and
besides the persuasion of having given him at least an eve-
ning’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 ac-
quainted 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 vari-
ous 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 mis-
fortune 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

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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 grate-
ful for the interest implied; and though with a shake of the
head, and sighs which declared his little faith in the effi-
cacy of any books on grief like his, noted down the names
of those she recommended, and promised to procure and
read them.
When the evening was over, Anne could not but be
amused at the idea of her coming to Lyme to preach pa-
tience and resignation to a young man whom she had never
seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more serious re-
flection, that, like many other great moralists and preachers,
she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct
would ill bear examination.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

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 ex-
ceptions, 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 atten-
dance at hand, in case of his having another seizure. Indeed
I think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people

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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 charac-
ter. 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 com-
panion, ‘I wish Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were
intimate with Dr Shirley. I have always heard of Lady Rus-
sell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody! I

 Persuasion
always look upon her as able to persuade a person to any-
thing! I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite
afraid of her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her
amazingly, and wish we had such a neighbour at Upper-
cross.’
Anne was amused by Henrietta’s manner of being grate-
ful, and amused also that the course of events and the new
interests of Henrietta’s views should have placed her friend
at all in favour with any of the Musgrove family; she had
only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that
such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects
suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Went-
worth coming towards them. They came also for a stroll till
breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting, im-
mediately 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

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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 loi-
tering 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 stroll-
ing about near the two inns as they came back, should be
his servant. Both master and man being in mourning as-
sisted 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 propri-
ety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good
manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not hand-
some, 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 car-
riage, (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

 Persuasion
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 car-
riage, 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

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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 ob-
served them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been
in mourning, one should have known him by the livery.’
‘Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances to-
gether,’ said Captain Wentworth, ‘we must consider it to be
the arrangement of Providence, that you should not be in-
troduced to your cousin.’
When she could command Mary’s attention, Anne qui-
etly 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 fu-
ture 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; luck-

 Persuasion
ily 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 circum-
stance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to
be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed. The
offence which had been given her father, many years back,
she knew; Elizabeth’s particular share in it she suspected;
and that Mr Elliot’s idea always produced irritation in both
was beyond a doubt. Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all
the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspon-
dence with Elizabeth fell on Anne.
Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined
by Captain and Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with
whom they had appointed to take their last walk about
Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one,
and in the mean while were to be all together, and out of
doors as long as they could.
Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon
as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation the
preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again;
and they walked together some time, talking as before of
Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as before, and

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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 can-
not part.’
‘No,’ said Anne, ‘that I can easily believe to be impos-
sible; but in time, perhaps—we know what time does in
every case of affliction, and you must remember, Captain
Harville, that your friend may yet be called a young mourn-
er—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 Plym-
outh 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 dan-
ger 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

 Persuasion
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 accom-
plish, 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

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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 Went-
worth. 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 contrib-
uting 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

 Persuasion
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 mo-
ment, 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, stag-
gering 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

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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, com-
paratively collected, and eager to be doing something. ‘I will
carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others.’
By this time the report of the accident had spread among
the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were
collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to
enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young
ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some
of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was con-
signed, 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;

 Persuasion
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 con-
tusion, 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 re-
joicing, 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

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by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be for-
gotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near
a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed,
as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and
trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.
Louisa’s limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to
the head.
It now became necessary for the party to consider what
was best to be done, as to their general situation. They were
now able to speak to each other and consult. That Louisa
must remain where she was, however distressing to her
friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did
not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Har-
villes silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all
gratitude. They had looked forward and arranged every-
thing before the others began to reflect. Captain Benwick
must give up his room to them, and get another bed else-
where; and the whole was settled. They were only concerned
that the house could accommodate no more; and yet per-
haps, 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

 Persuasion
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 ne-
cessity 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 toler-
able 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 Cap-
tain 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 stay-
ing! 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

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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 Har-
ville, 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 re-
main. ‘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 previ-
ously 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

 Persuasion
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 ve-
hement, complained so much of injustice in being expected
to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Lou-
isa, 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 jeal-
ous 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 rec-
ollection, as they hurried along, to the little circumstances
which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the morning.
There she had listened to Henrietta’s schemes for Dr Shir-
ley’s leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr
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 oc-
casion of continuing their acquaintance.
Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a
chaise and four in waiting, stationed for their convenience

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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 ex-
pressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles was
listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or
must at least convince her that she was valued only as she
could be useful to Louisa.
She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just. With-
out emulating the feelings of an Emma towards her Henry,
she would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the
common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped he
would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink
unnecessarily from the office of a friend.
In the mean while she was in the carriage. He had hand-
ed them both in, and placed himself between them; and in
this manner, under these circumstances, full of astonish-
ment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme. How the long
stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what
was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee. It
was all quite natural, however. He was devoted to Henri-
etta; 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 gov-
erning 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

 Persuasion
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 qual-
ities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits.
She thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a per-
suadable 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 her-
self 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 think-
ing 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 re-
membrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a
proof of friendship, and of deference for her judgement, a

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great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting proof,
its value did not lessen.
When the distressing communication at Uppercross was
over, and he had seen the father and mother quite as com-
posed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the better for
being with them, he announced his intention of returning
in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were
baited, he was off.
(End of volume one.)

 Persuasion
Chapter 

The remainder of Anne’s time at Uppercross, compre-

hending only two days, was spent entirely at the Mansion
House; and she had the satisfaction of knowing herself ex-
tremely 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 be-
fore 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 morn-
ing. 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

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his father had at first half a mind to go with him, but the
ladies could not consent. It would be going only to mul-
tiply trouble to the others, and increase his own distress;
and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon.
A chaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles con-
veyed back a far more useful person in the old nursery-maid
of the family, one who having brought up all the children,
and seen the very last, the lingering and long-petted Mas-
ter 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, con-
sequently, 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 Henri-
etta; 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 es-
sential to obtain every twenty-four hours. He made it his
business to go to Lyme, and his account was still encourag-
ing. 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

 Persuasion
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 trou-
ble 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 as-
sisting 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 desert-
ed, occupied but by her silent, pensive self, might be filled
again with all that was happy and gay, all that was glow-
ing 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 blot-
ting out the very few objects ever to be discerned from the
windows, was enough to make the sound of Lady Russell’s

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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 comfort-
less 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 pre-
cious. 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 neces-
sary, 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 Upper-
cross. But happily, either Anne was improved in plumpness
and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so; and Anne, in
receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the amuse-
ment of connecting them with the silent admiration of her
cousin, and of hoping that she was to be blessed with a sec-
ond 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

 Persuasion
been full on leaving Kellynch, and which she had felt slight-
ed, 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 con-
cerns 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 Lou-
isa 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 so-
licitude, 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 tell-
ing her briefly what she thought of the attachment between

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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 plea-
sure, 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 fa-
ther 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

 Persuasion
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 convic-
tions must unquestionably have their own pain, and severe
was its kind; but they precluded that pain which Lady Rus-
sell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning
through the well-known apartments.
In such moments Anne had no power of saying to her-
self, ‘These rooms ought to belong only to us. Oh, how fallen
in their destination! How unworthily occupied! An ancient
family to be so driven away! Strangers filling their place!’
No, except when she thought of her mother, and remem-
bered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no
sigh of that description to heave.
Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave
her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite, and on the
present occasion, receiving her in that house, there was par-
ticular attention.
The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic,
and on comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it ap-
peared that each lady dated her intelligence from the same
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 re-
turned 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 be-
ing the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those

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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 ef-
fects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think,
how long Miss Musgrove’s recovery might yet be doubt-
ful, 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 mis-
tress’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,

 Persuasion
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 an-
other’s, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge
for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about
the house or not.’
Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very grate-
fully.
‘We have made very few changes either,’ continued the
Admiral, after thinking a moment. ‘Very few. We told you
about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very
great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon
earth could bear with the 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

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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 El-
liot, 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 chim-
ney 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 Rus-
sell would be removing to Bath.
So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Went-
worth at Kellynch Hall, or of seeing him in company with
her friend. Everything was safe enough, and she smiled over
the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much

longer after Mr and Mrs Musgrove’s going than Anne con-
ceived they could have been at all wanted, they were yet
the first of the family to be at home again; and as soon as
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 Har-
villes 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 hospita-
ble.
Mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evi-
dent by her staying so long, she had found more to enjoy

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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 find-
ing 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 misunder-
stood,’ 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.’

 Persuasion
 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 Upper-
cross; 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 acknowl-
edged 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. ‘El-
egance, sweetness, beauty.’ Oh! there was no end of Miss

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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 lis-
tened 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 ev-
ery 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 as-
sure 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

 Persuasion
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 drop’s one’s scissors, or anything that hap-
pens. 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 conjec-
ture, 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.’

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 This decision checked Mary’s eagerness, and stopped her
short in the midst of the Elliot countenance.
With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne haz-
arded 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 con-
trary, 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 feel-
ing 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 wheth-
er 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

 Persuasion
and girls from school, bringing with them Mrs Harville’s lit-
tle 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 tyr-
anny 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, dur-
ing 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 clam-
our 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

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thank her most cordially, again and again, for all her atten-
tions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what she
had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round
the room, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so
likely to do her good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home.
Louisa was now recovering apace. Her mother could even
think of her being able to join their party at home, before her
brothers and sisters went to school again. The Harvilles had
promised to come with her and stay at 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 Up-
percross in the Christmas holidays.’
Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other mat-
ters; 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 newspa-
permen, 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 un-
der their influence; and like Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling,
though not saying, that after being long in the country, noth-
ing 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;

 Persuasion
caught the first dim view of the extensive buildings, smok-
ing 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 Upper-
cross 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 de-
ceive 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, al-
ready recanting the sentiment she had so lately expressed to
Mary, of his being ‘a man whom she had no wish to see.’ She
had a great wish to see him. If he really sought to reconcile
himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for having
dismembered himself from the paternal tree.
Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circum-
stance, but she felt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again
than not, which was more than she could say for many other
persons in Bath.
She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell
then drove to her own lodgings, in Rivers Street.

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Chapter 

Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place,

a lofty dignified situation, such as becomes a man of conse-
quence; 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 un-
expected 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 un-
looked for. They were evidently in excellent spirits, and she
was soon to listen to the causes. They had no inclination to
listen to her. After laying out for some compliments of being
deeply regretted in their old 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

 Persuasion
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 supe-
riority 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

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now been a fortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriv-
ing, 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 aston-
ished, 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 op-
portunity 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 gen-
tleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter added), who
was living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and

 Persuasion
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 dif-
ference 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 circum-
stance 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 happi-
ness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.
Anne listened, but without quite understanding it. Al-
lowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for
the ideas of those who spoke. She heard it all under em-
bellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational in
the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but
in the language of the relators. Still, however, she had the
sensation of there being something more than immediate-

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ly 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 af-
ford 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 under-
standing 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 Eliza-
beth 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 vis-
its were talked of.
Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at
Lyme, but without being much attended to. ‘Oh! yes, per-
haps, it had been Mr Elliot. They did not know. It might be
him, perhaps.’ They could not listen to her description of
him. They were describing him themselves; Sir Walter espe-

 Persuasion
cially. 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 ap-
peared 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 em-
barrassed 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 pres-
ent 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 propor-
tion. He had frequently observed, as he walked, that one
handsome face would be followed by thirty, or five-and-

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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 wom-
en 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 san-
dy-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

 Persuasion
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 Cres-
cent. 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 re-
ceived 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,

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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, want-
ing 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 re-
spects 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

 Persuasion
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 leav-
ing 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 mantelpiece had struck ‘eleven with its silver sounds,’
and the watchman was beginning to be heard at a distance
telling the same tale, before Mr 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!

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Chapter 

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 as-
sure 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.

 Persuasion
 In the course of the same morning, Anne and her fa-
ther 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 im-
proved; 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 add-
ed, ‘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 car-
ried away her freckles.’
If Elizabeth could but have heard this! Such personal
praise might have struck her, especially as it did not appear
to Anne that the freckles were at all lessened. But every-
thing must take its chance. The evil of a marriage would
be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry. As
for herself, she might always command a home with Lady
Russell.
Lady Russell’s composed mind and polite manners were
put to some trial on this point, in her intercourse in Cam-
den 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 chari-
table, or more indifferent, towards the others. His manners

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were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing
with him she found the solid so fully supporting the super-
ficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost ready
to exclaim, ‘Can this be Mr Elliot?’ and could not serious-
ly 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 hon-
our, 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 self-
ishness, 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, noth-
ing to require more motives than appeared, in Mr Elliot’s
great desire of a reconciliation. In Lady Russell’s view, it

 Persuasion
was perfectly natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature time of life,
should feel it a most desirable object, and what would very
generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be
on good terms with the head of his family; the simplest pro-
cess in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and
only erring in the heyday of youth. Anne presumed, how-
ever, still to smile about it, and at last to mention ‘Elizabeth.’
Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only this cau-
tious 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 deter-
mine 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 in-
excusable 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 dis-
solved.
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

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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 solici-
tudes 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 daugh-
ter, 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 intro-
duce 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 Car-
teret;’ ‘our cousins, the Dalrymples,’ sounded in her ears all
day long.
Sir Walter had once been in company with the late vis-
count, 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 conse-
quence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter’s at the same

 Persuasion
time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch.
No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. The ne-
glect 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 busi-
ness set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the
question: and it was a question which, in a more rational
manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot thought unim-
portant. ‘Family 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 Dalrym-
ple, and the Honourable Miss Carteret, to be arranged
wherever they might be most visible: and ‘Our cousins in

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Laura Place,’—‘Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Car-
teret,’ 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, accomplish-
ment, 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 bet-
ter; 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 main-
tained 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 con-
versation; that is what I call good company.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said he gently, ‘that is not good com-
pany; 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

 Persuasion
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 consid-
eration which we must all wish for.’
‘Yes,’ sighed Anne, ‘we shall, indeed, be known to be re-
lated 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 ac-
ceptable as acquaintance.’
‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘I certainly am proud, too proud to en-
joy 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

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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, speak-
ing 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 supe-
riors, 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 admit-
ted that his wishing to promote her father’s getting great
acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of de-
feating her.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously push-

ing 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 kind-
ness 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 suffer-
ing 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 rela-
tions and a settled home, remaining another year at school,
had been useful and good to her in a way which had consid-
erably lessened her misery, and could never be remembered
with indifference.
Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long af-
terwards, 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 ex-

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travagant; 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 distress-
es 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 lodg-
ings 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 imag-
ined. 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 wid-

 Persuasion
ow, 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 ex-
pectation. 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 ac-
commodations 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 ser-
vant 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 en-
joyment. 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,

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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 car-
ried 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 in-
valid now, compared with her state on first reaching Bath.
Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable object; for she had
caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken posses-
sion 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 weath-
ered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her
good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel
herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the
world, to expect sudden or disinterested attachment any-
where, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady
had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and
she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister
of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always
a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be at
liberty just in time to attend her. ‘And she,’ said Mrs Smith,

 Persuasion
‘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 recov-
ering 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 as-
sure 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 op-
portunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth

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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 af-
fecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent,
disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, forti-
tude, 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 weak-
ness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber:
it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and
fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship
in the world! and unfortunately’ (speaking low and tremu-
lously) ‘there are so many who forget to think seriously till
it is almost too late.’
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 emo-
tion 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;

 Persuasion
and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and fin-
ery. 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, Eliza-
beth 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 eve-
ning in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse.
They were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrym-
ple 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 schoolfel-
low.’ 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 El-
liot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A
widow Mrs Smith; and who was her husband? One of five
thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be met with every-
where. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly.
Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most ex-
traordinary 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

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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 hand-
some equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey a
Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Build-
ings! 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 Ire-
land! 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

 Persuasion
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 ab-
sent, 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, com-
passionate 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, man-
ners, 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

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to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was be-
ginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free
him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and
leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleas-
ing. 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 Rus-
sell, ‘being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all
human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr El-
liot 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 vir-
tues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You
are your mother’s self in countenance and disposition; and

 Persuasion
if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situ-
ation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the
same spot, and only superior to her in being more high-
ly 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 dis-
tant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try
to subdue the feelings this picture excited. For a few mo-
ments 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 immedi-
ately 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 spo-
ken 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 consid-
eration 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

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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 pres-
ence 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,

 Persuasion
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 Kel-
lynch church, in the course of the following autumn.

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Chapter 

It was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been

a month in Bath, was growing very eager for news from Up-
percross 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 natu-
rally.
‘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, how-
ever, 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 en-
grossed her. It had been begun several days back.
‘February 1st.

 Persuasion
 ‘My dear Anne,—I make no apology for my silence, be-
cause 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 holi-
days. 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 yester-
day, 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 under-
stand it. They are not at all nice children, in my opinion;
but Mrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not
better, than her grandchildren. What dreadful weather we
have had! It may not be felt in Bath, with your nice pave-
ments; but in the country it is of some consequence. I have
not had a creature call on me since the second week in Jan-
uary, 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 Loui-
sa; it would have kept her a little out of his way. The carriage
is gone to-day, to bring Louisa and the Harvilles to-mor-
row. 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 con-
venient to me to dine there to-morrow. I am glad you find
Mr Elliot so agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with

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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 ci-
vility 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 in-
attention. 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

 Persuasion
long as I like. The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sin-
cerely 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, Loui-
sa 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

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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 Mus-
grove, but a million times better than marrying among the
Hayters.’
Mary need not have feared her sister’s being in any de-
gree 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 hors-
es, 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 gentle-
man.’
‘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. Eliza-
beth, may we venture to present him and his wife in Laura

 Persuasion
Place?’
‘Oh, no! I think not. Situated as we are with Lady Dalrym-
ple, 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 de-
cent 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! Per-
haps 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-spir-
ited, 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 liv-
ing in the same small family party: since Henrietta’s coming
away, they must have been depending almost entirely on

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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 dawn-
ing 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 Went-
worth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted.
No, it was not regret which made Anne’s heart beat in spite

 Persuasion
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. Know-
ing 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

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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 of-
ten 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 contempla-
tion of some print, and she not only might have passed him
unseen, but was obliged to touch as well as address him be-
fore she could catch his notice. When he did perceive and
acknowledge her, however, it was done with all his usu-
al 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 certain-
ly must be. I wonder where that boat was built!’ (laughing
heartily); ‘I would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well,’
(turning away), ‘now, where are you bound? Can I go any-

 Persuasion
where for you, or with you? Can I be of any use?’
‘None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure
of your company the little way our road lies together. I am
going home.’
‘That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too. Yes, yes
we will have a snug walk together, and I have something to
tell you as we go along. There, take my arm; that’s right; I do
not feel comfortable if I have not a woman there. Lord! what
a boat it is!’ taking a last look at the picture, as they began to
be in motion.
‘Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?’
‘Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain
Brigden; I shall only say, ‘How d’ye do?’ as we pass, however.
I shall not stop. ‘How d’ye do?’ Brigden stares to see any-
body with me but my wife. She, poor soul, is tied by the leg.
She has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-shil-
ling 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 morn-
ing; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from
them all, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in

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our chairs, and are snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as
we used to be even at North Yarmouth and Deal. We do not
like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for putting us
in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind
blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way.’
When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to
press again for what he had to communicate. She hoped
when clear of Milsom Street to have her curiosity gratified;
but she was still obliged to wait, for the Admiral had made
up his mind not to begin till they had gained the greater
space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs
Croft, she must let him have his own way. As soon as they
were fairly ascending Belmont, he began—
‘Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise
you. But first of all, you must tell me the name of the young
lady I am going to talk about. That young lady, you know,
that we have all been so concerned for. The Miss Musgrove,
that all this has been happening to. Her Christian name: I
always forget her Christian name.’
Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so
soon as she really did; but now she could safely suggest the
name of ‘Louisa.’
‘Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish
young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names.
I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something
of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all thought, you
know, was to marry Frederick. He was courting her week
after week. The only wonder was, what they could be waiting
for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear

 Persuasion
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 Novem-
ber. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter
has take the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the
same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is
to marry James Benwick. You know James Benwick.’
‘A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick.’
‘Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are mar-
ried 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 char-
acter.’
‘Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James
Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made last sum-
mer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not
another fault that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fel-
low, 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

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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 enter-
ing 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 gos-
sip. 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 Mus-
grove; 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.’

 Persuasion
 ‘Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is noth-
ing 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 handsome-
ly 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?’

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Chapter 

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 car-
riage, 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 Dal-
rymple 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 ex-
pect 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

 Persuasion
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 po-
lite and so determined, that the others were obliged to settle
it for them; Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a lit-
tle 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 de-
cidedly and distinctly, Captain Wentworth walking down
the street.
Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instant-
ly 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 oblig-
ing) 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 her-
self 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

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see if it rained. She was sent back, however, in a moment by
the entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a par-
ty 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 mo-
ments. 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 embar-
rassed.
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 consid-
erable 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 Mus-
groves, nay, even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look

 Persuasion
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 Eliz-
abeth, 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, expect-
ing 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 alto-
gether 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

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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, re-
peating 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 fam-
ily, 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 con-

 Persuasion
fess 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 Cam-
den 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 prin-
cipally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise,
warm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and in-
sinuations 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 suf-
fering 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 ev-
ery 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;

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and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into com-
pany with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge
of the matter might add another shade of prejudice against
him.
The following morning Anne was out with her friend, and
for the first hour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch
for him in vain; but at last, in returning down Pulteney
Street, she distinguished him on the right hand pavement at
such a distance as to have him in view the greater part of the
street. There were many other men about him, many groups
walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him. She
looked instinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad
idea of her recognising him so soon as she did herself. No,
it was not to be supposed that Lady Russell would perceive
him till they were nearly opposite. She looked at her how-
ever, 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 Rus-
sell’s eyes being turned exactly in the direction for him— of
her being, in short, intently observing him. She could thor-
oughly 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?’

 Persuasion
 ‘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-cur-
tains 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 pri-
vate 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 be-
cause her strength was not tried, was quite impatient for the
concert evening. It was a concert for the benefit of a per-
son 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,

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she felt all over courage if the opportunity occurred. Eliza-
beth 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.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the ear-
liest 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 dis-
tinguish, but she must guess the subject; and on Captain
Wentworth’s making a distant bow, she comprehended that
her father had judged so well as to give him that simple ac-
knowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time
by a side glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth her-
self. This, though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was
yet better than nothing, and her spirits improved.
After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the

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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 pres-
ently 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, add-
ed, ‘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 oppo-
sition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving
like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anx-
ious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter’s
comfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their hap-

 Persuasion
piness; more than perhaps—‘
He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and
to give him some taste of that emotion which was redden-
ing 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 re-
gard 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 rea-
son 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 de-
votion 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 far-
ther; and Anne who, in spite of the agitated voice in which
the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the var-
ious 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,

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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 hor-
ror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind,
the wear of spirits! I should have thought your last impres-
sions 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, noth-
ing 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 enjoy-
ment. 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

 Persuasion
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 con-
versation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the
penance compared with the happiness which brought it on!
She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings
towards Louisa, more of all his feelings than she dared to
think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the par-
ty, 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 cour-
teous 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 Cap-
tain 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

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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 compari-
son 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 attach-
ment; sentences begun which he could not finish, his half
averted eyes and more than half expressive glance, all, all

 Persuasion
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 imply-
ing 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 hav-
ing 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 hap-
pen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her
eye could not reach him; and the concert being just open-
ing, she must consent for a time to be happy in a humbler
way.
The party was divided and disposed of on two contigu-
ous 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 El-
liot, 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 en-
tertainment 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. To-
wards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an Italian
song, she explained the words of the song to Mr Elliot. They

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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 Ital-
ian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English. You
need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is com-
plete 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 accomplish-
ments, 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 lon-
ger 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

 Persuasion
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 curios-
ity. 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 curi-
osity to know her.’
Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with
partiality of her many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of
Monkford, Captain Wentworth’s brother. He might have
been in Mr Elliot’s company, but she had not courage to ask
the question.
‘The name of Anne Elliot,’ said he, ‘has long had an in-
teresting sound to me. Very long has it possessed a charm
over my fancy; and, if I dared, I would breathe my wishes
that the name might never change.’
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 ev-
ery thing else trivial. Her father and Lady Dalrymple were

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speaking.
‘A well-looking man,’ said Sir Walter, ‘a very well-look-
ing 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. Went-
worth; 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 dis-
tance. 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 recommenc-
ing, 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 benefi-
cial 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

 Persuasion
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 Rus-
sell’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 lit-
tle scheming of her own, Anne was enabled to place herself
much nearer the end of the bench than she had been be-
fore, 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 con-
cert closed.

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 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 irreso-
lute, and only by very slow degrees came at last near enough
to speak to her. She felt that something must be the mat-
ter. 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 glanc-
es? He began by speaking of the concert gravely, more like
the Captain Wentworth of Uppercross; owned himself dis-
appointed, 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 counte-
nance 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 ac-
costed by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried sort

 Persuasion
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 dif-
ferent 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.

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Chapter 

Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her

promise of going to Mrs Smith, meaning that it should en-
gage 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 inter-
est her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments,
by his early prepossession. It was altogether very extraor-
dinary; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret.
How she might have felt had there been no Captain Went-
worth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a
Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present
suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever.
Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from
other men, than their final separation.
Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal con-
stancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath,
than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to West-
gate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification
and perfume all the way.

 Persuasion
 She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend
seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for com-
ing, 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 gen-
eral 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 spar-
rows 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 beau-
ties, 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 or-
chestra, of course.’

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 ‘No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very un-
pleasant 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 un-
derstand. 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 defi-
cient.
‘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 con-
cert 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 in-
terests you at this present time more than all the rest of the
world put together.’
A blush overspread Anne’s cheeks. She could say noth-
ing.
‘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

 Persuasion
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 aston-
ishment 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 ac-
quaintance 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 com-
posedly, ‘Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?’
‘I have been a good deal acquainted with him,’ replied
Mrs Smith, gravely, ‘but it seems worn out now. It is a great
while since we met.’
‘I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it
before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of
talking to him about you.’
‘To confess the truth,’ said Mrs Smith, assuming her usu-
al 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,

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than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or oth-
er, 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 par-
don. 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

 Persuasion
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 mar-
ried, 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 en-
gagements 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 noth-

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ing 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 El-
liot had not the share which you have been supposing, in
whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not
Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that—‘
She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had
implied so much; but less would hardly have been suf-
ficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in
Mr Elliot’s failure, but from the perception of there being a
somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with
all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, ea-
ger to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why
Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot;
where she could have received the idea, or from whom she
could have heard it.
‘Do tell me how it first came into your head.’
‘It first came into my head,’ replied Mrs Smith, ‘upon
finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the
most probable thing in the world to be wished for by every-
body belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon
it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the
same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago.’
‘And has it indeed been spoken of?’
‘Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you
when you called yesterday?’
‘No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I ob-
served no one in particular.’
‘It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-

 Persuasion
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 histo-
ry.’ ‘The whole history,’ repeated Anne, laughing. ‘She could
not make a very long history, I think, of one such little ar-
ticle 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 ex-
tremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could.
Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any
message?’
‘No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of
the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might,
perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circum-
stances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to
trouble you with.’
‘I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many
years?’
‘I did.’
‘Not before he 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

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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 tak-
en 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 El-
liot 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 ne-
glect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is
totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or com-

 Persuasion
passion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!’
Anne’s astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made
her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added,
‘My expressions startle you. You must allow for an in-
jured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself. I
will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found
him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my
dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him
as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before
our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I,
too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and enter-
tained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know,
one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to
me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than
most others, and we were almost always together. We were
principally in town, living in very good style. He was then
the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he
had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could
do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had al-
ways 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 di-
vided 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 par-
ticular 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

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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 ac-
quainted 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

 Persuasion
and sister, in their civilities and invitations, were designing
a match between the heir and the young lady, and it was im-
possible that such a match should have answered his ideas
of wealth and independence. That was his motive for draw-
ing 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 ac-
quaintance 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 crea-
ture 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 inter-
rupted 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 wom-
an’s marrying for money is too common to strike one as it
ought. I was very young, and associated only with the young,

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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. Mon-
ey, money, was all that he wanted. Her father was a grazier,
her grandfather had been a butcher, but that was all noth-
ing. 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 him-
self. 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

 Persuasion
appeared to be some years ago. This is all in confirmation,
rather, of what we used to hear and believe. I am more curi-
ous 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 El-
liot to him before our marriage, and happened to be saved;
why, one can hardly imagine. But he was careless and im-
methodical, like other men, about those things; and when
I came to examine his papers, I found it with others still
more trivial, from different people scattered here and there,
while many letters and memorandums of real importance
had been destroyed. Here it is; I would not burn it, because
being even then very little satisfied with Mr Elliot, I was de-
termined 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. Tun-
bridge Wells,’ and dated from London, as far back as July,
1803: —
‘Dear Smith,—I have received yours. Your kindness al-

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most 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 ad-
vantage 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 stron-
ger?’
Anne could not immediately get over the shock and mor-
tification of finding such words applied to her father. She
was obliged to recollect that her seeing the letter was a vio-
lation of the laws of honour, that no one ought to be judged
or to be known by such testimonies, that no private cor-

 Persuasion
respondence 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 ev-
ery 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 writ-
ten 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 unre-
servedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on you, which said
Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a sensible, care-
ful, 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 overflow-
ing 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

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Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of Marlbor-
ough 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 reconcilia-
tion 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 infor-
mation in such a line. Facts or opinions which are to pass
through the hands of so many, to be misconceived by fol-
ly 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, with-
out knowing it to be you?’
‘He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme. I hap-
pened to be at Lyme.’
‘Well,’ continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly, ‘grant my
friend the credit due to the establishment of the first point
asserted. He saw you then at Lyme, and liked you so well as
to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you again in Cam-

 Persuasion
den 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

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as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of ava-
rice 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 ar-
rival 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 ac-
cord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is
always something offensive in the details of cunning. The

 Persuasion
manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be re-
volting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me.
I know those who would be shocked by such a representa-
tion 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 per-
ceive 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 Wal-
lis’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 re-

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spects to be in company with him, but I shall know better
what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr El-
liot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who
has never had any better principle to guide him than self-
ishness.’
But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been
carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgot-
ten, 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 defi-
cient both in justice and compassion.
She learned that (the intimacy between them continu-
ing 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 in-
come 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 dis-
cern 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 gratifi-
cation of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded

 Persuasion
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 prob-
able finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and
encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and
the Smiths accordingly had been ruined.
The husband had died just in time to be spared the full
knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrass-
ments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and
to prove that Mr Elliot’s had better not be tried; but it was
not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was
fully known. With a confidence in Mr Elliot’s regard, more
creditable to his feelings than his 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 with-
out 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 inhuman-
ity; 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

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distress upon distress, which in former conversations had
been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural in-
dulgence. Anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite
relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the com-
posure of her friend’s usual state of mind.
There was one circumstance in the history of her griev-
ances 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 sequestra-
tion 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 noth-
ing, 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 antic-
ipation 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 wom-

 Persuasion
an 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 sup-
posed 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 con-
versation. ‘She had seemed to recommend and praise him!’
‘My dear,’ was Mrs Smith’s reply, ‘there was nothing
else to be done. I considered your marrying him as certain,
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 hus-
band. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness; and
yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as
you, it was not absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to
his first wife. They were wretched together. But she was too
ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her.
I was willing to hope that you must fare better.’
Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a pos-
sibility of having been induced to marry him, as made her
shudder at the idea of the misery which must have followed.
It was just possible that she might have been persuaded by
Lady Russell! And under such a supposition, which would
have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too
late?
It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no lon-

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ger 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 liber-
ty to communicate to her friend everything relative to Mrs
Smith, in which his conduct was involved.

 Persuasion
Chapter 

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 at-
tentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have
done, was considered with sensations unqualified, unper-
plexed. Pity for him was all over. But this was the only point
of relief. In every other respect, in looking around her, or
penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to appre-
hend. 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 enti-
tled 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 fam-
ily? 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

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mind which could not be opened to Lady Russell; in that
flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself.
She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she in-
tended, escaped seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and
paid them a long morning visit; but hardly had she con-
gratulated herself, and felt safe, 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 im-
mediately, for I would never really omit an opportunity of
bring 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

 Persuasion
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 com-
passion 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 im-
possible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight of Mr Elliot;
and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and
appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting
herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have
done otherwise.
To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot
enter the room; and quite painful to have him approach and
speak to her. She had been used before to feel that he could
not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insincerity in
everything. His attentive deference to her father, contrast-
ed 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 com-

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patible 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 guard-
ed, 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; want-
ed 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 in-
vited again to Camden Place the very evening of his return;
but from Thursday to Saturday evening his absence was cer-
tain. 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 con-
stant 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

 Persuasion
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 sav-
ing her sister trouble, which determined her to wait till she
might be safe from such a companion. She saw Mrs Clay
fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the
morning in Rivers Street.
‘Very well,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I have nothing to send but my
love. Oh! you may as well take back that tiresome book she
would lend me, and pretend I have read it through. I really
cannot be plaguing myself for ever with all the new poems
and states of the nation that come out. Lady Russell quite
bores one with her new publications. You need not tell her
so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night. I used to
think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her
at the concert. Something so formal and arrange in her air!
and she sits so upright! My best love, of course.’
‘And mine,’ added Sir Walter. ‘Kindest regards. And you
may say, that I mean to call upon her soon. Make a civil
message; but I shall only leave my card. Morning visits are
never fair by women at her time of life, who make them-
selves 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 vis-
its, at all hours, of Mr Elliot, would have expected him, but

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for his known engagement seven miles off. After the usu-
al 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 ap-
pearance; 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 an views of ac-
commodation 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 under-
stood; 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, Hen-
rietta, 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 character-
istic 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 do-
ing something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed
coming with him, and Mrs Harville had seemed to like the

 Persuasion
idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband; but
Mary could not bear to be left, and had made herself so un-
happy 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 op-
portunity 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 Up-
percross.
Anne’s only surprise was, that affairs should be in for-
wardness 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 ques-
tion, 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 liv-
ing it was,’ Charles added: ‘only five-and-twenty miles from
Uppercross, and in a very fine country: fine part of Dor-

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setshire. 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 daugh-
ters’ shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind,
liberal father to me. Mary does not above half like Henri-
etta’s match. She never did, you know. But she does not do
him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot
make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very fair
match, as times go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my
life, and I shall not leave off now.’
‘Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove,’
exclaimed Anne, ‘should be happy in their children’s mar-
riages. They do everything to confer happiness, I am sure.

 Persuasion
What a blessing to young people to be in such hands! Your
father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambi-
tious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and
misery, both in young and old. I hope you think Louisa per-
fectly 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 Ben-
wick 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 ac-
quainted with him last Monday than ever I did before. We
had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my fa-
ther’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

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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 moth-
er-in-law’s carriage with four horses, and with her own
complete independence of Camden Place, that she was ex-
actly 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 differ-
ence 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 propri-
ety 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

 Persuasion
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 par-
ticularly 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 eager-
ness 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-im-
proved 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 de-
lighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at

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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 natural-
ly 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 her-
self, 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 din-
ing-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled:
a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Mus-
grove, 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 feel-
ings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but
she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate per-
suasion, which had hastened him away from the Concert

 Persuasion
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 de-
pendence:— ‘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 in-
advertencies 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 em-
barrassed 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 fam-
ily features, and protesting still more positively that it was
Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to come and look for

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herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to be cool
and unconcerned. Her distress returned, however, on per-
ceiving 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 part-
ing; they are shaking hands. He is turning away. Not know
Mr Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all about Lyme.’
To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrass-
ment, Anne did move quietly to the window. She was just
in time to ascertain that it really was Mr Elliot, which she
had never believed, before he disappeared on one side, 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 oppo-
site 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;

 Persuasion
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 ex-
press 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 fam-
ily 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 particu-
larly to be acquainted with! Every attention is due to Mr

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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 expres-
sion 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 deter-
mined 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 Henri-
etta 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

 Persuasion
smallest impediment. I have no pleasure in the sort of meet-
ing, 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 de-
sign, by Anne.
‘You have not been long enough in Bath,’ said he, ‘to en-
joy the evening parties of the place.’
‘Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me.
I am no card-player.’
‘You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like
cards; but time makes many changes.’
‘I am not yet so much changed,’ cried Anne, and stopped,
fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction. After wait-
ing a few moments he said, and as if it were the result of
immediate feeling, ‘It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a
half is a period.’
Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to
Anne’s imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for
while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was star-
tled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make use of the

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present leisure for getting out, and calling on her compan-
ions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.
They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfect-
ly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta
have known the regret and reluctance of her heart in quit-
ting that chair, in preparing to quit the room, she would
have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the
very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her.
Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarm-
ing sounds were heard; other 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 her-
self, the ‘Miss Elliot at home,’ were laid on the table, with
a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile

 Persuasion
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 ap-
pearance as his. The past was nothing. The present was that
Captain Wentworth would move about well in her draw-
ing-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 wit-
nessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a
manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than grati-
fication, 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!’ whis-
pered Mary very audibly. ‘I do not wonder Captain
Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card out
of his hand.’
Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth
form itself into a momentary expression of contempt, and
turned away, that she might neither see nor hear more to
vex her.
The party separated. The gentlemen had their own pur-
suits, the ladies proceeded on their own business, and they

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met no more while Anne belonged to them. She was ear-
nestly 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 enumera-
tion 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 ap-
peased 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 rest-
less 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 intima-
tion 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 con-

 Persuasion
sciousness 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 want-
ed 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.’

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Chapter 

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, how-
ever; the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved
over the rain on her friends’ account, and felt it very much
on her own, before she was able to attempt the walk. When
she reached the White Hart, and made her way to the prop-
er 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 mo-
ment 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

 Persuasion
account of tasting a little before the morning closed. There
was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep in the hap-
piness 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 con-
versation, 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: minu-
tiae 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

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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 pro-
tested 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 en-
gagement, 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 ap-
plication to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and
at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced to-

 Persuasion
wards 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 ad-
mitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the
ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their ob-
servation, 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 seem-
ing 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 acquain-
tance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation.
She roused herself and went to him. The window at which
he stood was at the other end of the room from where the
two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Went-
worth’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

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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 eas-
ily 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 con-
tinual 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),

 Persuasion
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 for-
get 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 rid-
ing 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 wom-
an, 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 Har-

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ville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their
attention to Captain Wentworth’s hitherto perfectly quiet
division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen
had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding him near-
er 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 min-
utes.’
‘There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready when-
ever you are. I am in very good anchorage here,’ (smiling at
Anne,) ‘well supplied, and want for nothing. No hurry for a
signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot,’ (lowering his voice,) ‘as I was
saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No
man and woman, would, probably. But let me observe that
all histories are against you—all stories, prose and verse. If
I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty
quotations in a moment on my side 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.’

 Persuasion
 ‘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 confi-
dence, 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

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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 constan-
cy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable
of everything great and good in your married lives. I be-
lieve 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 quarrel-
ling 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 meet-
ing 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.

 Persuasion
 ‘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 Cap-
tain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look! He had
passed out of the room without a look!
She had only time, however, to move closer to the table
where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard re-
turning; the door opened, it was himself. He begged their
pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly cross-
ing 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 col-
lecting 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 hard-
ly 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 ar-

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rangements of her own at her own table; to their protection
she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had oc-
cupied, 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 incon-
stant. 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 crea-
ture! 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 and

 Persuasion
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

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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 cheer-
fully, 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 Cap-
tain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne’s
message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Cap-
tain 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 intel-
ligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary

 Persuasion
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 un-
grateful; 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’ prepa-
ration for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them;
but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said noth-
ing, 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 hesi-
tated 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 un-
packed to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and
if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his descrip-
tion, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine,
which you shot with one day round Winthrop.’

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 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 pri-
vate 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 de-
cide 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 pro-
jected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge
of each other’s character, truth, and attachment; more equal
to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly
paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around
them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling house-
keepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they
could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledge-
ments, and especially in those explanations of what had
directly preceded the present moment, which were so poi-
gnant 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

 Persuasion
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 occa-
sionally 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 irresist-
ible 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 ac-
knowledge: 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, maintain-
ing 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.

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 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 lei-
sure 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 reso-
lution 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 resent-
ment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when
thrown in his way.
From that period his penance had become severe. He had
no sooner been free from the horror and remorse attending
the first few days of Louisa’s accident, no sooner begun to
feel himself alive again, than he had begun to feel himself,
though alive, not at liberty.
‘I found,’ said he, ‘that I was considered by Harville an
engaged man! That neither Harville nor his wife enter-
tained a doubt of our mutual attachment. I was startled
and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict this instantly;
but, when I began to reflect that others might have felt the
same—her own family, nay, perhaps herself—I was no lon-
ger 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 inti-

 Persuasion
macy 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 him-
self; and that precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not
caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself as bound
to her, if her sentiments for him were what the 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 concern-
ing him might exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother’s,
meaning after a while to return to Kellynch, and act as cir-
cumstances 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 for-
mer 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,

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till at once released from Louisa by the astonishing and fe-
licitous intelligence of her engagement with Benwick.
‘Here,’ said he, ‘ended the worst of my state; for now I
could at least put myself in the way of happiness; I could
exert myself; I could do something. But to be waiting so
long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had been dread-
ful. Within the first five minutes I said, ‘I will be at Bath
on Wednesday,’ and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it
worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of
hope? You were single. It was possible that you might retain
the feelings of the past, as I did; and one encouragement
happened to be mine. I could never doubt that you would
be loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty
that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions
than myself; and I could not help often saying, ‘Was this
for me?’’
Their first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be
said, but the concert still more. That evening seemed to be
made up of exquisite moments. The moment of her stepping
forward in the Octagon Room to speak to him: the moment
of Mr Elliot’s appearing and tearing her away, and one or
two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or in-
creasing 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 consid-

 Persuasion
er 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 per-
suasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted
on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought
it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In
marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been
incurred, and all duty violated.’
‘Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus,’ he replied, ‘but
I could not. I could not derive benefit from the late knowl-
edge 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 be-

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lief; 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 numer-
ous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne had never
found an evening shorter. Glowing and lovely in sensibil-
ity 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 broth-

 Persuasion
er 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 communi-
cations 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 impar-
tially to judge of the right and wrong, I mean with regard
to myself; and I must believe that I was right, much as I suf-
fered 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 suf-
fered more in continuing the engagement than I did even
in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my con-
science. 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 wom-
an’s portion.’
He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking

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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 writ-
ten 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 under-
stand 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 bless-
ing 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.’

 Persuasion
Chapter 

Who can be in doubt of what followed? When any two

young people take it into their heads to marry, they are
pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they
ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to
be necessary to each other’s ultimate comfort. This may be
bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth;
and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Went-
worth and an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity
of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent for-
tune 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 princi-
ple 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 thou-
sand pounds which must be hers hereafter.
Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne,

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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 mar-
riage 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 mak-
ing 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 indi-
cate a character of dangerous impetuosity; and that because
Mr Elliot’s manners had precisely pleased her in their pro-
priety and correctness, their general politeness and suavity,
she had been too quick in receiving them as the certain re-
sult 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.

 Persuasion
 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 her-
self as a mother to the man who was securing the happiness
of her other child.
Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most im-
mediately gratified by the circumstance. It was creditable to
have a sister married, and she might flatter herself with hav-
ing 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 see-
ing Anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mistress
of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look for-
ward 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 be-
ing 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 proba-

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ble there. She had soon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot
withdraw, and no one of proper condition has since pre-
sented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes which
sunk with him.
The news of his cousins Anne’s engagement burst on Mr
Elliot most unexpectedly. It deranged his best plan of do-
mestic 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 enjoy-
ment. He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay’s quitting it
soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established un-
der 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, af-
ter 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 flat-

 Persuasion
tered 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 be-
stow 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 wel-
come which met her in his brothers and sisters, was a source
of as lively pain as her mind could well be sensible of un-
der 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 trans-
gressions, 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 ev-
erything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had
claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and per-
manently.
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

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through all the petty difficulties of the case with the activ-
ity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend,
fully requited the services which she had rendered, or ever
meant to render, to his wife.
Mrs Smith’s enjoyments were not spoiled by this im-
provement of income, with some improvement of health,
and the acquisition of such friends to be often with, for her
cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail her; and while
these prime supplies of good remained, she might have bid
defiance even to greater accessions of worldly 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.

Finis

 Persuasion